Led Away from the Darkness
by bleepbloopblorp
Summary: Young Sherlock Holmes hadn't expected to lose his vision. Being without it was difficult-maybe even impossible. Right when he needs it most, a friend comes into his life: John Watson, a boy with a physical deformity of his own. They become friends, realising how much they need each other, but Sherlock soon learns that there are far worse things to lose than his sight.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock had made it clear to his parents that he didn't want to go out with them. Over the past two years, his eyesight had become progressively worse and worse, until it had, last month, disappeared entirely. He could still picture it in his head, the tiniest sliver of blurred light, right in the center of his vision.

Now, it was gone. All of it was.

He hated it. Having to read books with his hands, not being able to see the image on the telly as it was playing, tripping on things that his mother or father left out (Mycroft never did; he was far too neat for that). It made him feel _silly,_ and falling was painful and embarrassing, and then his parents would come and help him up and treat him like a baby who couldn't even walk.

He was nearly nine years old. He wasn't a baby.

Even so, Sherlock felt a bit like one now. One minute, his mother had been right beside him. Sherlock hadn't been holding her hand, but he knew she was next to him because he could smell her perfume. Now, he wished that he _had_ held onto her, even if he was old enough to not need to. Being a big boy seemed to be nothing if you were as blind as a bat (an inaccurate saying, as Sherlock knew for a fact that bats weren't actually blind).

Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't smell his mother's perfume. He couldn't hear her voice. He couldn't see her, obviously. He bit down on his lip and took a small step forward, but he suddenly realised, for the first time, how intimidating it was to walk about without having someone to hold on to, someone to guide him. His father had gone out only a few hours ago to get Sherlock a cane; why couldn't they have waited until he got back to go out? At least the he would be able to tap it in front of him to make sure he wasn't going to step in any holes...

He would look silly doing it, he knew, but it was a necessity. Besides, it would be far better to use a cane than to be like he was now, turning this way and that in the hopes that suddenly his sight would return and he would find his mother amongst the people that kept brushing past.

* * *

John was, as he usually found himself, alone that rare-sunny London morning.

Not _alone,_ because there were tons of people all around him, mums and dads, strollers being pushed, the big kids running around with their friends.

So many of them, and they all walked straight past John, who was sitting by himself with his back to a tree as he watched them all stroll past.

Mum told him it was very, very important he stay out of people's way, and 'never, _ever_ take off your cap, John. Ever.'

So he did.

He stayed where he was, because it was important to do what was told of him, while his father sat at a bench a ways away, not looking at John, but was talking to a strange woman wearing a big, floppy hat.

At least he had his toy for company, as he usually did. The little green soldier holding a gun who would point it wherever John positioned him. His favorite, as he had had it since before he could remember, as was evident by the teeth-shaped indents at the bottom.

He was feeling restless, like most nine-year old boys do when being forced to keep still for too long, but he knew that he could get away with some things with him mum, but hardly _anything_ with his dad.

He leaned his head back against the tree and sighed deeply and audibly, when his sharp eye caught something peculiar.

Amidst the sea of people, there was a boy who looked his own age, (which always made John's heart beat just a little faster in childlike excitement for more than one reason). But this boy with the dark, curly hair didn't look like most he had seen in the park that day. He wasn't laughing or smiling or playing with anyone.

He was all alone, like John.

And something was very wrong with him.

John didn't know what it was, but the way the boy turned around and around with his head lifted, like he were smelling for something, made John wonder...

What if... what if the boy was like John? John couldn't smell anything this far away, there were too many people around to distinguish one smell above the rest, but John never saw _anyone_ do that same motion before...

He felt his heart begin to beat a little quicker at just the thought.

John ran his tongue over his lower lip and glanced over to where his dad was still sitting, (a little bit closer now to the floppy-hat woman) before slowly getting to his feet. He brushed a bit of grass off his legs before clutching his action figure a little tighter in his hand before slowly walking over to the boy, making certain to keep his capped-head lowered.

When he reached the boy, he lifted his head again and took a deep breath before saying, very simply, "Hello."

That was what mum always told him to say when meeting new people, because she said it was what was polite.

"Are you looking for something?"

Sherlock froze immediately when he heard someone addressing him. He didn't know how he knew that they were, but something about the voice and its closeness to him, he just-he just knew. Somebody was talking, and they were talking directly to him.

His mother always told him not to talk to strangers. Father said the same thing, but his mother was the one who was overly insistent upon it, making sure that he always knew. Although, she hadn't said that as often ever since he had lost his sight. Maybe that was because she knew he would, at times, have to rely on strangers in order to get places safely.

Sherlock didn't like that. He knew he was only a child-but still a big boy; he would make sure everyone knew that-but that didn't mean he couldn't do anything by himself. He was smart! As a matter of fact, he was smarter than anyone else he had ever met.

Well. Besides Mycroft. But Sherlock didn't want to think about that, and he certainly wouldn't ever admit it. Mycroft would never let him live it down.

 _'Are you looking for something?'_

The voice didn't _sound_ scary, or mean. In fact, he sounded like a boy, just like Sherlock. That made him feel a little more confident; after all, what could a person his own age do to him? Nothing, as far as he was concerned.

After clearing his throat, Sherlock turned his face towards the source of the voice. He had sunglasses on to cover his milky, blank eyes, but he could at least look like he was able to see.

"My mother," he answered as calmly as he could. Sherlock cleared his throat again and waved his hand, gesturing to the surrounding area. "She is-she's here somewhere." He bit down on his lip and then added, softly, "I think."

She wouldn't have left, would she? No. No, surely not. He couldn't see now, and it would be an adjustment for the whole family, that was what his parents always said, but they wouldn't just _leave_ him. Sherlock knew that, rationally, but it did nothing to stop his heart from beating quicker, louder, inside his tight chest.

"I'm trying to smell her perfume," Sherlock told the other boy, just so he could show off how smart he was in knowing what his mother wore. "Cashmere Mist. It-It has jasmine in it. And bergamot."

Not that he knew what 'bergamot' was, but it was a big word and he wanted to show, too, that he could say it.

"So, if you-if you don't mind, I need to...I need to get back to this. Smelling for her."

With that, Sherlock turned around, holding his hands out in front of him as he did so, as if he could find some sort of surface to support and balance himself on. He sniffed the air again, scowling when he couldn't find any trace of his mother. He couldn't even hear her.

John blinked a few times at the boy when he spoke. He had absolutely no idea what a 'cashmere mist' was supposed to smell like, (and bergamot sounded more like a food than a smell, whatever that was). His mum didn't wear anything that had a fancy name. But she didn't wear a lot of smells these days, he supposed, because it was just too strong for him. John sneezed every time she hugged him and his eyes would burn from irritation. Harry's never did, and she always rolled her eyes at John like he was making it up, but he wasn't! It _hurt._

"Can't you just-"

John watched the way the boy's hands went out in front of him, the way they shook just so, as though he were uncertain what he was meant to be touching...

Oh!

"You can't see! Why are you all alone?"

That didn't make any sense to John. He never met anyone that couldn't see before, but the people in the movies always had canes with them, or at least had a friend to walk with them. John may have only been nine, and _he_ was alone a lot, but even he knew that this boy should have his mum around.

John felt a tingling in his fingertips as he watched him and his chest felt suddenly tight. He turned his head over his shoulder to look for his dad, who still didn't seem to notice he was gone or talking to a stranger, so feeling brave, John looked back at the other boy.

"I'll help you find your mum. I know all sorts of smells. I don't know that one, that berger-bergamon thing, though. What does she look like? Oh. I mean-"

John could feel his nerves beginning to set in as he looked for the right words to say. Darn!

He leaned in, just briefly, and inhaled. Up close, he could smell this boy better. John was learning new smells every day, and this was no different. Something that smelt expensive, like the way a nice home might smell. Fresh linen masking a very mild earthy-scent, that made John feel very much grounded. And then there was something very slight; a sharp, sweet scent, right near the boy's collar that made John's nose crinkle.

"Come on."

He reached for the boy's hand and took it in his own, his small fingers wrapping around the other's boy's as he began to pull him gently forward. He didn't ask if it was okay, and his mum would scold him for it, but he _needed_ to help.

"What's your name?"

 _'Why are you all alone?'_

Ha! Why indeed. Sherlock had asked himself that same question, wondering why his mother had allowed him to wander off and then getting annoyed when he realised he was making it sound in his own head as if he was helpless without her.

He _wasn't._

Or maybe he was. But he didn't want to have to actually admit to that, and who could blame him? Nobody wanted to admit that they couldn't do anything without someone helping them, right?

Mycroft was like that. He didn't want to have to rely on people. He was very independent, all the time. He told Sherlock that he should be able to do things by himself, although he hadn't done that as often in the past month, ever since Sherlock had stopped being able to see. Mycroft wasn't as helpful as their parents, but he seemed to be just a little bit nicer than before.

Sherlock looked in the direction of his own hand when he suddenly felt the other boy touching it. He hadn't expected that, and normally he would have pulled away, just out of surprise if nothing else, but he didn't have much choice now, did he? If the boy could help him find his mother and get him out of this mess it was worth it, wasn't it?

"My name is Sherlock," he answered. "And I do know what my mother looks like. I used to be able to see; I wasn't-I wasn't _born_ like this. She has blonde hair and blue eyes. She's wearing her brown coat today. I know because it's really scratchy."

Sherlock wished that he could tell something about the boy who was now holding his hand. He couldn't tell much. He had heard him sniffing, too, and from that he could tell that he was just a little bit taller than he was, but obviously he didn't have any idea what he looked like or what he was wearing. A shame, too, because Sherlock had used to feel so smart when he could learn so much about a person just from those basic things.

"What is _your_ name?" he asked. "And why are _you_ all alone?"

If he were being honest, Sherlock didn't really care about the answers to either questions. He wouldn't admit it, but he was just glad that he had someone there to help him.

There were many, many people out that morning, and all of them seemed to be closing in around the two little boys as they made their way through the sea of them. John kept his hand tight around the other boy's to make sure he wouldn't lose him in the crowd, but it made talking difficult, as he was also concentrating on fishing out the scent he'd caught on the boy.

"Sher...lock," he repeated. He tried it again, then once more, because it wasn't a name he'd ever heard before and it felt a bit funny on his tongue. "My name is John. And I wasn't alone. My dad was watching me."

Well. More or less. Surely he wouldn't notice that John was gone, it would only be for a few minutes. He wouldn't get angry over that. And he was doing something good! Maybe he would be proud of him, even! He was so distant, he didn't spend a lot of time smiling at John, and when he did, it felt stretched across his face like he had pins keeping his mouth in place. Maybe he would get a really good one, this time.

But John pushed those thoughts away for the time to focus on the job at hand.

"There's so many people here," he murmured, stopping in front of Sherlock to look around. He was a little taller than the other boy and it allowed him to see over his head when he turned around in a circle, nose lifted in the air.

"Wait, come this way..." He pulled Sherlock again, back towards where they came. "What sort of a name is 'Sherlock'? I've never heard that before."

Sherlock wondered why John's father would let him go off on his own if he'd been watching him, but he didn't ask. Maybe he had been busy with something and hadn't actually seen John leave? Either way, Sherlock was glad that he had. He needed the help.

He was nervous and he knew it was obvious. He was breathing quickly and his palm was sweating, making it more difficult to hold John's hand in his own. He knew the other boy noticed, how could he not? It was embarrassing, but Sherlock focused on telling himself that it wasn't his fault.

He hadn't wanted to go blind. He hadn't asked for it. The eye doctor had told him and his parents that there was nothing they could do to slow the progression, that it was genetic and irreversible.

'They're always working on cures for these sorts of things,' he had said, 'and ocular transplant research has come a long way. We're not there yet, but in ten, twenty years, who knows what could happen?'

"I have heard the name 'John' dozens of times," Sherlock said, tightening his hand around John's as he followed after him, doing his best to keep from slowing them both down. It was hard to walk at normal speed when he couldn't see. He was entirely reliant on a complete stranger to guide him, and frankly, he didn't like it.

"I don't know how my parents came up with the name. My brother's name is Mycroft. My mum and Dad are named Wilma and Thomas. They have boring names; maybe they wanted us to have unusual ones."

Well, at least that had got his mind off his missing mother, or a moment.

"How are you going to find her? You don't know what she looks like, and you said you don't know what bergamot smells like. Is your nose really that good? I know you smelled me."

John most certainly could feel the other boy's hand, slick with sweat and grasping to keep hold of his own, but he wondered how much of that was mixed with his own.

He was nervous, too, because it had been so long since he'd talked to another little boy, someone his own age or someone who wasn't his mum or Harry, and because he had taken it on himself to get this boy back to _his_ mum, he knew he couldn't screw it up.

When being told that Sherlock had known he had smelled him, his grip on his hand tightened a little more.

"I didn't smell you," he said quickly. "Well, I did-I thought maybe some of her perfume was on you." He shook his head and the cap, already too big for him, fell slightly over his eyes, and he had to push it up again as he changed the subject. "Besides, you told me what she looked like. Scratchy brown coat, blonde hair and blue eyes. It can't be too hard to find her, can it?"

Again, John lifted his nose in the air and inhaled, (making sure to be a little more quiet about it) before he suddenly made a beeline to their left, pulling Sherlock through the crowd of people, weaving him in and out, legs instinctively pulling them faster as though he couldn't help but stop until he found his destination. His heart began to race quickly again and he felt a familiar tightness around the base of his spine. It was uncomfortable, awfully so, but John did his best to ignore it.

And then he saw her; a beautiful woman with blonde hair done up in a messy bun on her head, wearing clothes that John would have seen the woman in magazines and shop windows wearing. A small heel, and a brown coat that looked terribly scratchy.

And that smell! The same one he'd found on Sherlock's collar, only much, much stronger. Enough to make him want to hold his breath. John tightened his fingers around Sherlock and turned to look at him, though he still couldn't get the best look.

"You're going to be okay, I promise," he told him in his best reassuring voice. And then, as if on cue, the woman turned her worried, wet eyes on them and gasped.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock was _tired._

His doctor had warned him that he would be. He'd told him that he would feel tired, not because he wasn't getting enough sleep or because he was doing things that wore him out, necessarily, but just because living as a blind person was such a change from what he was used to, and he would feel like everything he did was a huge ordeal, whereas he would normally have been able to do things without even thinking about them.

It wasn't fair. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind about that. He knew he wasn't the nicest person on earth, and he wasn't the smartest (that title was bestowed upon Mycroft), but he wasn't stupid, and he wasn't mean. He was just...himself. He didn't deserve to have his eyesight taken away from him, and yet here he was, staring into nothing but blackness as he was pulled along behind a boy he didn't even know.

John could have been taking him anywhere. Sherlock had read in the papers once about a father who used his own daughter to lure other little girls away, and then he would keep them locked up and hurt them. Even though Sherlock wasn't a girl, it had still scared him, just a little.

He'd only been six at the time, so, he'd had an excuse to be scared.

By the time John stopped running, Sherlock felt out of breath. He didn't have any idea where he was. Was he still around other people? He could hear them, but was he still safe? Surely he wasn't going to be pushed into some van and taken somewhere, locked in a cage and beat and hurt. John was nice; he wouldn't do that, not to him.

Yes, they had only just met...but still.

Then John promised him that he would be okay. He wouldn't break a promise, would he? Only bad people did that. John didn't seem like a bad person. He wouldn't have helped Sherlock look for his mother if he was, right? Unless he'd been lying about that all along...

Then, he heard it. His mother's voice stood out amongst the other murmuring of people who passed by; he could hear it clearly over the sound of cars driving and horns honking, birds cawing and chirping. Immediately Sherlock felt his heart begin to slow. He was so relieved that he exhaled sharply, not even realising that he'd begun to hold his breath. He reached out his hand towards his mother, just so he could be absolutely sure that it was her, but he was already being pulled into her arms and held, tightly, against her body.

His hand slipped out of John's as it happened.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock!" his mother exclaimed, putting both of her hands on his face as she kissed the top of his head. Sherlock could tell that she was crouching down in front of him; her voice started from above him but was now level with his eyes. "I don't know how we got separated, but I am _sorry;_ oh, honey, are you okay?"

A month ago, this wouldn't have happened. His mother would have been worried about him, but he would have been hugged and then scolded for getting separated from her. Now, his mother took the blame entirely on herself.

"I'm fine," Sherlock answered as calmly as he could. He bit down on his lip and nodded. Before he could say a word about John, his mother had already turned her attention to him.

"You helped my Sherlock, didn't you?"

Wilma wrapped both of her arms around John and gave him a hug just like she had to her own son; the only difference was that she didn't kiss his head.

"What's your name? How can I thank you? Where are your parents, I need to tell them what you've done for my Sherlock."

John was quite ready to turn and quickly run back to where he had come from, if Sherlock's mum hadn't bent down and wrapped him up in a hug. John's heart felt like it were racing a mile a minute at the warmth and obvious joy and praise from the woman and he squirmed a little to try and calm himself down, less there be... questions.

John couldn't help it. He _couldn't._ He was only nine and he was excitable and didn't understand or know how to control... _it,_ but it happened anyway and if he got too excited, it would be obvious and he would get into trouble.

So he carefully pulled away and put his hands behind his back like his mum had told him to do, palms covering the base of his spine. His cheeks were slightly red and he opened his mouth to answer this nice, pretty woman, when he was cut off by a voice in the crowd.

"John!"

He jumped a little and they both looked up to see John's father, with his black-rimmed glasses and patched jacket, pushing his way through the crowd. There was no floppy-hat woman with him. His face, too, was slightly red, but for what John guessed was a different reason.

"Where did you go?" he demanded. "You know you are _not_ allowed to go wandering off!"

John closed his mouth and looked back at the woman and Sherlock.

"He got lost," he said. "I was helping."

John's father looked up at the woman and the other little boy, and as if knowing he couldn't scold him too much right here, in front of people, (or maybe he just didn't know how to handle it) he cleared his throat and grabbed for John's arm while the other reached forward to push John's hat further down on his head, as he did so often.

"Sorry if he's bothered you," he told the woman.

John wanted to protest and say he wasn't bothering anyone but his father gave him a look and John closed his mouth again.

"Come on. We're going home now."

John quickly looked up at Sherlock, whose face was turned towards them, and John got his first good look at him, up in his mum's arms. Thick, curly hair. Black sunglasses on his face, posh-looking clothes that looked like they cost more than John's entire wardrobe. His scent stood out from the other two, though, and John found it to be very pleasant indeed.

"Bye," he told him with a small wave, before remembering that he couldn't see him, and dropped his hand again.


	2. Chapter 2

Everything happened so fast. Obviously it was John's father who was scolding him; there was nobody else it could be, and it reminded Sherlock of how his own parents and brother used to act when he would go off on his own or do something he knew he wasn't supposed to be doing.

In his defense, he normally did things for the sake of learning. Whether it was bringing animals home or looking under rocks, going out in the woods at night, walking into buildings by himself, talking to strangers...well. He wasn't _supposed_ to do any of that, and sometimes he obeyed, but other times, not so much.

"He wasn't bothering us at all," Wilma said quickly, putting her hand on Sherlock's shoulder as she straightened up. "Please, sir, let me give him something as a thank-you. I thought I'd lose my head with worry, and then he comes to my boy's rescue."

Even Sherlock nearly blushed at that.

Wilma looked down and saw John holding on to a little green soldier, one that was covered in tooth marks. She clicked her tongue, tutting, and then put her hand on his shoulder, too.

"Oh, you poor thing, did your puppy chew up your toy? Sherlock and I were going to stop at the toy store; how about you come with us? You can pick anything you want." Wilma looked up at John's father and smiled pleadingly. "Please, it's really the least I can do."

Sherlock knew his mother was lying. They hadn't planned to go to the toy store; the only other stop they were going to make was the book store so he could look at the braille selection, if they even had one. Still, if they were going to the toy store, maybe he could get something, too.

And, if he were being honest, he wasn't completely opposed to spending just a little more time with the boy who had helped him.

Biting down on his lower lip, Sherlock reached out his hand, grabbing at the air before his fingers brushed against John's jacket. He moved his hand down John's arm until he could hold on to his hand again, loosely.

"I would like that," he decided. "John can help me pick something, and I'll help him pick something, too."

John's face turned red again when the woman asked him if his puppy had chewed up his toy and he carefully covered the marks with his hand. Well. Strictly speaking, she wasn't _totally_ wrong.

He couldn't help it! It had been an accident, really.

Sort of.

He looked up at his father, the bill of his hat pointing directly up at the sky.

His mum always told him that it was polite to always decline if someone wanted to give him something, even if they were sincere, because it still felt impolite to accept gifts, but John would be lying if he said he wasn't excited at the thought of getting a new toy. He couldn't be blamed for that, surely. He was only nine, and his age betrayed his face, which lit up hopefully. He never got new toys; he had a box of stuffed animals, a few little green soldier men, but most were chewed, and some of them were missing body parts.

He'd had them for a long, long time. Since way before he could remember.

John's father looked uncomfortable, torn between insisting on _no,_ that it was time to go home, and being put on the spot that he might be judged if _did_ say no, despite knowing it wasn't a good idea.

But then, as he looked down at John for a moment longer, at his son's blue eyes and hand clutching his toy, his face softened and he ran his hand through the back of his hair.

"Just-do _not_ pick out anything big," he said at last. "I mean it. Something small."

John smiled brightly before looking up at the woman, then at Sherlock, who was holding his hand again. John hadn't ever held anyone else's hand just because before, but he liked holding this boy's hand. He liked feeling that maybe he needed his help some more. So John closed his hand around him tighter again and moved closer to the two, right by their side.

John's father still looked a little uncomfortable, for more than one reason, and he gave John a long look that John knew to say, 'don't do anything that will make it _obvious._ '

John never did anything on purpose that was obvious, though.

"John. What do you say?"

John quickly looked back up at the woman, face turning red again, a big smile spreading across his face.

"Thank you."

Wilma had been able to tell that John's father was uncomfortable, and she did feel a little bad for putting him on the spot like that, but overall, she was glad that she had. The boy's face lit up, and she couldn't help but wonder if he didn't often have the opportunity to buy whatever he wanted.

He and his father both looked a bit...shaggy, for lack of a better word. She would never say that to them, of course, but she could still think it, couldn't she? However, they seemed like kind people. Wilma would never, _ever_ think to judge someone based upon how much money they had or what clothes they were. She thought it was awful to do such a thing. That being said, she always wanted her own family to be well taken care of financially (every way, really), and she always made sure that her sons and husband were dressed to the nines.

"The store is right over here," Wilma said, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder so she could indicate to him which direction he needed to go in. "Step carefully, love, there's some ice directly to your left."

That was the worst part about this Christmas season, Sherlock decided. It was mid-December, very nearly the holiday, and that meant that there were crowds and snow and ice. He didn't mind the cold, but the ice made it extremely difficult for him to him to walk worry-free.

Clenching John's hand tighter, Sherlock took small steps. He looked down at the ground, even though he knew he wasn't able to see a thing. Maybe one day he would wake up and be able to see again. It wasn't likely, but he could still hope for it, couldn't he?

Mycroft would probably tell him it was a silly thing to do, but Mycroft didn't have to know.

Wilma led the way into the shop. She tried to take Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock only squeezed hers and then pulled his away. He was already holding John's hand; he didn't need that much help, surely. As soon as they entered, he felt warm and heard the sounds of children giggling, steam engines roaring, and mechanical toys speaking. Some were saying the alphabet, some were counting, but he could hear each and every one individually. The doctor had told him his other senses would improve and it was definitely happening.

Sherlock glanced in John's direction and wet his lips. "What-what kind of toys do you like? I like the ones that teach you something. I had an ant farm, but I think my mum let the ants go, since I can't watch them anymore."

John's father was watching John like a hawk, but thankfully stayed a little ways back, allowing the two boys to have some space to look around. John was very much glad for it, because even though he knew that it was his place to obey his dad's wishes, (to make sure he knew his place, instincts told him) he was eager to go and play with this boy.

"You had an ant farm?" John asked him, lifting his eyebrows. "What do you do with ants?"

That seemed weird to John. Farms had pigs and horses and cows. Not _ants_.

He pulled Sherlock forward a little bit more, maybe a little too quickly in excitement, because there was a sharp, ' _John,_ be _careful,_ ' from where his father was standing.

"Sorry," he murmured, then pulled a little more gently again.

"I don't have a lot of toys," he explained to Sherlock quietly. "I have a lot of stuffed animals, though, but they can be boring sometimes. I don't have anything that teaches things, though. Well, I have this thing that you can put a ball in and it throws it and you can run and catch it. That's really fun, but it's usually for outside and it's too cold to play with that right now."

John had never been in this toy store before, but he felt himself thinking more about the boy called Sherlock, and what he could play with now that he couldn't see anything. It was probably a rude thought, an immature one, but one that came from an innocent place of just not knowing what blind people did. Could he see _anything_? Was it black? Did he imagine things?

John felt himself feeling sad for him.

"Do you like to play make believe?" John found himself asking, a bit dumbly when he found he wasn't sure what to lead Sherlock to first. "I like to do that sometimes."

Sherlock didn't want to have to actually admit that he played make-believe, but the fact was that he did. He didn't do it so much now, but he had when he had been a little younger, before his sight had been taken from him.

His mother would play with him a little, but she was better at supporting him in other ways. Instead of actually playing, she would sew him a costume or make him fake treasure. She had even made him a fake earring once, and a pegleg! His father would play with him the most often, and _something_ Sherlock could coax Mycroft into playing, but he never did a good job at it. He wouldn't use pirate voices or say pirate-y things, and all he ever wanted to do was sit in his chair and read.

The toy that John described made Sherlock crinkle his nose. Chasing after a ball? Boring. Sherlock wasn't very physical. He had no desire to play sports or to watch them on the telly. Well, even if he did want to play sports now, it wasn't as if he could. He wasn't sure what kind of hobbies he could have. Ever since he had gone totally blind, Sherlock had spent most of his time learning to read braille and listening to violin music.

"I used to play pirates," Sherlock answered, shrugging. "And you can do a lot with ants. I liked to watch them build tunnels, and watch the queen have eggs. She never had to do any work; all the worker ants did everything for her. It was interesting."

If John played make-believe...maybe he would be willing to play pirates with him? Sherlock wasn't sure how it would work, but he was smart. He could figure out a way.

"Do you like pirates? I like knights, too, but pirates are better. What sort of make-believe do you play?"

John had never played pirates before, but he did like them. He liked the idea of being on a big ship, sailing off in search of danger or gold and treasure, sword fighting and making someone walk the plank. He thought absently about his bunk bed and how he could sometimes jump from it, (though he always got in trouble for it) and pretend he was jumping to the ocean.

"I like to pretend I'm a hunter," John said, breaking into a toothy grin. He let go of Sherlock's hand so he could bring both of them up, fingers curls like claws as he made a fierce-face at Sherlock, as if to scare him. Which he couldn't even see, but John did it anyway.

"In my backyard I pretend I'm a protector and I'm saving everyone from danger. I'm _really_ good at it. Sometimes Harry will pretend she's the bad guy and she's coming to take my family away and I _always_ stop her. Sometimes I like to pretend to be a wolf."

He couldn't exactly explain that one. It wasn't like being a pirate or a knight, but he always liked to pretend he was a wild animal off hunting or running through the forests. He got a lot more excitement out of it than Harry did, of course. Whenever John would start growling at her, (sometimes unintentionally) and pretend to jump on her, she would push him off and storm off.

John didn't know why.

The store was warm; much warmer than outside, no doubt the heat was turned up high, and John wanted badly to take the hat off. He hated wearing it, but he wasn't allowed to remove it until he got home. Beneath it, there was a slight twitching, as all the sounds in the store seemed to be picking themselves out to him, and he would occasionally turn his head in one direction to look when he heard something particularly loud.

"Let's go over here," John said, taking Sherlock's hand again and leading him down an aisle. "You said you liked things that teach you stuff. I don't think many toys teach stuff, though. I don't have anything like that."

Sherlock found it very odd that John liked to pretend to be a wolf. What sort of child pretended to be an animal? That wasn't normal, was it? Sherlock had never heard of anyone doing it, but then again, he didn't know many other children. Just Mycroft and the neighbour boy, Victor Trevor, but Sherlock wasn't very close with either of them. His parents kept him and Mycroft away from other children, more so now that Sherlock was blind, so he was very glad to be out with John.

Sherlock knew it wouldn't last, though. His mother would buy John a toy, and probably one for him, too, and then they would go their separate ways and never see one another again. Sherlock didn't like that, but he was at least glad that he and John had been able to spend even just a little time together. It was surprisingly nice to spend time with someone his own age.

There were so many people in the store, which was already warm to begin with, that Sherlock soon started to become uncomfortably hot. He reached up with his free hand and pulled at his scarf, loosening it around his neck. He pushed his sunglasses further up on the bridge of his nose and glanced around, despite seeing only black in all directions.

"I had a plant that ate bugs," Sherlock told John, just because it was one of the educational toys he'd had. Of course, most children wouldn't think of a plant as a toy, but Sherlock had thoroughly enjoyed it. "It was a flytrap. Oh, and I had a solar-powered grasshopper. I liked him, but he didn't always work because it's always cloudy and rainy."

Sherlock didn't know where they were at in the store. He didn't know where his mother was, or where John's father had gone. He reached out his hand and it smashed directly into a shelf, making him grunt in discomfort and then sigh.

"I had an edible chemistry kit, too. It made fizzy drinks and foaming jelly that changed colours. I liked it. I didn't eat much of what it made, though. It didn't taste very good."

Even though John didn't know this boy at all, and even if he hadn't done anything that was really out of the ordinary, John was interested in him. The things he said weren't things John had ever heard before.

Edible chemistry sets. Fly traps. Solar powered grasshoppers. John didn't even know what some of those _were_ , and here this boy was talking about them like they were so normal.

He was so...cool.

"Wow," John said, turning to look at the shelf of Barbie dolls they were standing in front of, (by chance only, John certainty didn't play with dolls). "I wish I had an edible chemistry set. But I don't know anything about chemistry so I don't think I would be good at it. I would probably eat the stuff, though. I'll eat anything. I love to eat."

Sometimes that was literal, but John didn't say that.

He took Sherlock's hand again and laced their fingers together because it was easier to hold on to him that way and began to pull him forward again. There were things he wanted to ask him, mostly about his sight, about where he lived and where he went to school. John was home schooled, 'just until you are old enough to understand some things' his mum had said with a tight smile. John felt he understood things just fine, though.

John really didn't know if anything here would be something Sherlock would like. There were action figures and bubble machines and trains and jump ropes and balls and all sorts of cool things that John would love to play with, but there were no fly eating plants or solar powered animals. John felt a bit sad again, all of a sudden, and a sudden urge to find Sherlock the perfect toy.

"Come on," he said again. He walked only a step or so ahead of the (presumably younger) boy, looking all around, up at the tall shelves and all the stuff on the top shelves.

His nose suddenly began to tingle as a strange smell, only known by him, came drifting through the aisle and he whirled around to see where it came from. He began to follow where it was, turning the corner with Sherlock in tow, until he stopped and stared at the display in front of him.

"Oh! Look!"

He spoke before he could think, but he didn't even register his own words as he pulled Sherlock to the machine on the stool.

"A scent-creator," he read slowly from the sign as little tubes with different colored liquids seemed to bubble and boil on top of an electric-powered heat. There were different powders that one could choose from, so John reached his fingers in the blue stuff and sprinkled some inside the liquid. It began to fizz suddenly and then the air turned a wispy silver colour and a scent like the ocean began to fill his senses.

"You should get this!"

John telling him to 'look' made Sherlock's heart sink just a little. He knew he would never be able to look at anything ever again, not unless there came to be some medical miracle that could give him his sight back. What were the chances of that happening?

Slim, if not nonexistent. And even if it did happen, it wouldn't be for years down the road. He would probably be an old man before he could see again, and by then he wouldn't even be able to recognise anything!

Being dragged along with John wasn't something Sherlock liked, at all, but he couldn't very easily just let go of his hand. He didn't know where his mother had gone, although he knew she wouldn't be far from him, not after having already lost him once. Sherlock tried to smell her perfume, but he was distracted when he heard a sniffing coming from in front of him.

John really _did_ like smelling things.

"A scent-creator?" Sherlock repeated, his brow furrowing as he stared ahead, despite not being able to see anything. He was intrigued just by the name alone. John's nose was much better than his own, which shouldn't have been the case, Sherlock decided. He was blind; he had to make sure that his other senses were stronger, so he couldn't let John be better at smelling things than him.

Sherlock leaned forward a little, inhaling slowly. He could smell...what was it, salt? Seawater? Maybe a little bit of coconut, too? It wasn't a bad smell and Sherlock even smiled a little, just because he was thinking of his first trip to the beach. He'd found a few little crabs in a tide pool, and even a starfish. He had wanted to take them home to study them, but his father had told him no.

"It sounds like something scientific," Sherlock mumbled. He nodded his head and reached forward, curling his fingers around the edge of one of the boxes and pulling it beneath his arm. "I like science toys. What are you going to get, John? You can get whatever you want, even though your dad said to get something small. My parents have a lot of money. You should get something really big and _really_ expensive."

Despite what Sherlock said, John knew it wouldn't be the case. He couldn't get anything he wanted, especially if it was big and expensive. The second his dad would see him picking out something like that, he would demand that John put it back. His dad was already uncomfortable letting John pick something out at all, likely because they didn't have a lot of money and because he didn't let John go and talk to other kids too much.

It made John, despite being an eager nine-year-old, unsure of what he should choose. There were plenty of things he could like, but all of them were simple enough. He let go of Sherlock's hand and looked around a bit.

"I don't know what to get," he admitted softly. From where they were now standing, John could look up and see his father and Sherlock's mother. They were still standing near the entrance, but both of their eyes were trained on them as their mouths would occasionally move, no doubt making some sort of small talk. John didn't liked listening to adults talk, but that was almost always who he had to listen to. He caught his dad's eye and the man made a small, circular motion with his hand that told John, 'come on, let's hurry it up', so John looked around quickly.

"You pick something out for me," John said. "I bet you know all sorts of cool stuff, even if you can't see them in front of you."

Sherlock would have been lying if he'd said he didn't like John telling him 'I bet you know all sorts of cool stuff'. The fact was that he did know all sorts of cool stuff, and not only about toys. He knew all sorts of cool stuff about all sorts of things.

For example, he knew that the speed of sound was one-thousand, two-hundred and thirty kilometres per hour. He knew that humans exhale carbon dioxide, and that plants ate it. He knew that the London Eye was the tallest Ferris wheel in Europe, measuring at one-hundred and thirty-five metres tall.

He knew all those things andso much more.

"Maybe you should get a model," Sherlock suggested. "Or a puzzle. Although, I guess you prefer toys that you can actually play with, don't you?" He hummed as he thought. He didn't know John very much, so it was hard for him to come up with an idea of what John should buy. He didn't want to suggest anything that John wouldn't like; he wanted to make sure that whatever he said, it was perfect. He wanted John to know just how smart he was.

"Why not a bow and arrow, or a toy gun? You said you like to pretend to be a hunter. Wolves don't use weapons, but maybe you can be a special wolf. Or you can just pretend to be a human hunter."

Sherlock thought it was an excellent idea. John could set up empty bottles or cans and try to shoot at them; he could practice daily and get better and better at his aim. Just as long as he didn't use it to hurt any real animals, which Sherlock already knew John wouldn't do, he imagined he would have a lot of fun with it.

"Or you could get one of each. Mother wouldn't mind."

John's fingers seemed to tingle with excitement at the possibility of getting to pretend he was a fierce hunter with a cool gun or a bow to take down the bad guys, hunting like a predator. John could even imagine himself doing it! He pictured it in his head, like a movie, and he decided he very much liked the idea.

The only thing that could have made the moment better was if Sherlock could see him pick out his chosen weapon. It made John wonder what it would be like, not being able to see anything. It seemed like it would be really boring, but he didn't say that because he didn't want to hurt Sherlock's feelings. He just wanted him to be...

Well. Okay, he supposed. He wanted to make sure he was content. Happy, even.

"That's a great idea," he eventually decided. He took Sherlock's hand once more and walked them over to the next aisle, where there were all sorts of toy guns and bows on display. Most of them were in cardboard cases, of course, with just the front cut out, so John couldn't hold any of them, but he wanted to make sure he got the perfect one.

He picked up a box that was to his left; in it was a toy shotgun, similar to the one his toy soldier was using, and John decided it looked the coolest.

There was a toy handgun that also looked pretty neat, and he debated between the two, but only for a moment.

Who knew? Maybe he would have a real one, someday!

He looked back at Sherlock, facing him head-on, and brought the box up to his chest.

"I think this will be my favorite," he declared to him, and he felt his chest tighten with sudden, boyish admiration. "Maybe dad will let me come to the park again, soon. And then we can be pirate hunters."

He hoped, anyway. John hadn't gotten to play with someone in so long. He wanted to be able to go to school like the other kids, he wanted to be able to make friends and play with everyone, but they never let him. And Sherlock was, so far, the coolest kid John had talked to, so he really wanted to be able to play with him.

Sherlock wished he could see what John had chosen. Was it a gun? Was it a bow and arrow? Was it something else entirely? Darn it! He wanted to be able to _see_. The worst part of it all was that his condition was more than likely permanent. He would never again be able to see snow, or animals, or his mother and father, or even Mycroft. He would never be able to read a normal book or watch telly and see what was happening; he would never get to know what John looked like, other than touching his face and getting a vague idea about it.

It wasn't _fair._

He had told Mycroft that, and Mycroft was quick to tell him, 'Life isn't fair, little brother.' Sherlock could still hear it in his mind, and he sneered as he thought of it. Was that supposed to help him, knowing that life isn't fair?

Sherlock didn't need life to be fair. He could understand that it wasn't and be just fine. He didn't need it to be fair, but why couldn't it be fair just this one time? He would take anything else...he would even be deaf! But to have his sight taken from him, the sense that he used more than any other, was, in his mind, a cruel twist of fate.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had no idea that John, too, had his own challenges that he had to live with every minute of every day. He didn't know about John's 'affliction', or that they had more in common than he could imagine. And yet, he liked the other boy.

Sherlock reached out his hand towards the sound of John's voice. He felt the box against his chest and traced his fingers along the toy. It was long...a shotgun, then? The end was rounded, so that meant he wasn't feeling an arrow, but an actual gun.

"Being pirate hunters could be fun," Sherlock agreed, nodding. "Do you see any swords? I need a new sword. I like-liked-watching them fight with their swords. I even thought about taking fencing classes, when I was older. Mum says I'm too young to do it now."

At least, that was what she _had_ said. Now, she would probably say that he couldn't do it because he was blind.

Fair enough.

"Do you live close to the park?" Sherlock asked, feeling around until his hand came into contact with the shelf of toys. He felt a hand-gun, and then what was probably some sort of water gun, and then a foam toy. "I live about twenty minutes East of it."

 _Fencing lessons?_

John's eyes widened just so when Sherlock told him he might get to take fencing when he was older. That sounded so cool; John didn't think it was like the swords fights on the telly, where there was real danger, but he thought it sounded so cool, the way you could actually sword fight at _all_.

John didn't get to play sports, but he already decided that when he was older he was going to play rugby, whether mum or dad let him or not. He wanted to be like the other boys in the park, all covered up in mud and dirt and laughing and looking so carefree. He even didn't mind the way they were all huddled up together and tackling each other. It sounded fun!

"I think you'll be good at fencing," John told him. "You could use your hearing to find out where they are. Nobody would know because they wear those helmet things."

He turned around and faced the other wall, where there were all sorts of plastic swords lining the shelves. Some of them were pirate swords, some of them looked like samurai swords. John listened as Sherlock went on about asking where he lived in relation to the park, but the truth was, John didn't _really_ know. He didn't even know where east was, but he didn't let that on; Sherlock seemed to know a lot of cool things and John didn't want him to know that John didn't know as many things.

"I don't live in London," he said softly, tracing his fingers along the edge of the shelves. "We took the tube to get here. I wish we could come to London more often though. I really like it here, but mum says it's really, really expensive. And crowded."

That was definitely a big portion of it.

"Maybe when I'm older I'll move here."

He picked up two of the plastic swords and held them out in front of him.

"What about these?"

Sherlock was disappointed when John told him he didn't live in London. The fact that he'd taken the tube to get to the area, well...that meant they couldn't keep in contact easily, didn't it? If they wanted to play together again, they would have to travel a long way just to get to one another. Maybe this was the only time they would see each other, then.

Unfortunately.

Sherlock's parents, being extra overprotective of him as they were, now, may not even let him see John again. At least his mother had a good first impression of John, since he had helped him find his way back to her. Maybe that would make her more willing to let them see one another again.

Then again, John's father didn't sound keen on letting his son have any friends. That seemed like something else that he and Sherlock had in common. Sherlock didn't understand why their parents didn't want them to be around other children, but there was really nothing he could do about it, especially now that he was blind. If he still had his eyesight, he could have 'borrowed' a few pounds from his mother's purse and taken the tube to go and visit John. It wouldn't be _that_ hard to figure out, surely.

Sherlock took hold of the swords one at a time and felt them. The first was shorter and thicker, whereas the second was long and sleek, but still solid enough that it would be able to withstand the impact of clashing against another sword. He put the first back on the shelf (the wrong shelf, as it turned out) and then held the other to his chest, struggling to hold both it and the scent-maker.

"Do you go to the park often?" Sherlock asked, just as his mother came up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. He knew it was her because he could smell her perfume as she approached. Even though Sherlock couldn't see her, he looked up at his mother, and then beside her where he assumed John's father was standing.

"Will you bring John to the park sometime so we can play pirate-hunters?"

Asking John's father, he decided, would be the best idea-going straight to the source of who could give him-them-what they wanted.

John's father looked down at the two boys and John could tell by the look of him that he was being forced into another situation where he wasn't sure what he would do. He probably wished he wasn't in the situation at all and John did feel a little bad, knowing it was his fault in the first place.

But he found he really couldn't feel too bad. He liked Sherlock. He was glad he had helped him.

His father's eyes moved briefly to the cap on John's head, then down to the waistband of his jeans before he cleared his throat.

"I am sure we will be back in London again soon," he decided on saying. But that was that.

John felt himself deflate, just a bit. He could feel, beneath his hat, what would have been two upright ears, slightly flopped at the tips, turn sideways in disappointment.

John didn't want Sherlock to go home, but he didn't know what else he could do. He didn't like the idea that he was going off somewhere he didn't know, because what if he got separated from his mum again? John wouldn't be there to smell out her perfume again...

But all John could do was stand close next to him as their little group made their way to the cash register for them to check out with their new toys.

There were so many people, though, likely because it was nearing Christmas, and people seemed to be right on top of them, crowding them. When an older boy seemed to brush past Sherlock, a little bit too close, John moved closer and felt a very soft rumble in the back of his throat.

Sherlock knew just as well as John did that his father was basically saying 'no' to them playing together again. That wasn't fair! He was already blind, and now he couldn't see the _one_ boy he'd ever spoken with again?

Sherlock wanted to argue, but what could he say? John's father simply wasn't going to allow them to see each other again. That was all there was to it. Maybe it was because he was blind? Sherlock understood that, but he certainly didn't like it. It was hard enough for his parents and Mycroft to live with him; he couldn't really expect another family to cater to his needs if he went to visit them.

But still...maybe his parents would let John come and visit him? It didn't seem likely, though, so Sherlock kept his questions to himself. It wouldn't do any good to ask, after all, so there was no need to make a fuss.

Sherlock made a soft 'oof' noise when he was pushed, unintentionally, by someone else. He rolled his eyes but was soon distracted by a strange noise that he heard coming from right beside him. He knew it was John; John was the only one there, but it still wasn't something Sherlock expected to hear.

"Are you-" he asked, his brow furrowing as he turned to face John, "are you _growling_?"

He had never heard a person growl before, but that was exactly what John was doing. It was the strangest thing he had ever heard before in his life, but he was also intrigued, just because he wanted to know why John was doing it.

His mother and John's father were paying for their toys at the counter, no longer looking at them or paying them any heed. Sherlock was glad for that.

"Why are you growling?"

John didn't even realize what he had done until he had done it. It was purely instinct, and because of his age, he didn't yet know how to control that part of him, and it almost always happened at very inopportune times.

This just happened to be one of them.

His heart began to race just a little bit faster and Sherlock was staring in his direction and John was glad he wasn't able to see his face, which was turning red.

"I didn't-I was just... pretending."

Jeez, now Sherlock was going to think he was weird, like he was pretending to be a wolf or something, like he told Sherlock. Yes, John _did_ like to play pretend, but he was still aware enough of his surroundings not to just do it alone, by himself.

He swallowed and shook his head a little, looking around. This day had taken such a strange turn. He felt a little anxious, though, about what might happen when they got home. Would he get in trouble? Would he get his new toys taken away for a while?

John sighed inwardly at the thought.

"Do you come to the park a lot?" he found himself asking the boy. "Maybe I can meet you sometime. Maybe I can call you." He paused and lowered his voice. "It would have to be at night, though."

Sherlock _did_ think John was weird for pretending to growl. Playing a wolf at home in his backyard was one thing (still strange, though) but to do it right in the middle of a toy store? Weird. Even so, he kept his thoughts to himself. It was probably obvious on his face how he was feeling, though.

"I don't come very often," Sherlock admitted. "Only to get bugs. And soil samples. Sometimes leaves, or grass."

If Sherlock suddenly started asking to come to the park more often, his parents and Mycroft would catch on to what he was doing. They would see John there and they would either let him continue to come or they would tell him that it wasn't right or him to have a friend. But that didn't make sense. Why wouldn't his mother and father want him to have a friend to play with?

It didn't make any sense at all to Sherlock, but he knew there was nothing he could do to change his parents' minds. He could only work around their decisions.

Sherlock licked his lips and smiled a little. Calling John would be a good idea. They could even stay up late at night and do it, and then their parents wouldn't know! Sherlock knew that both of his parents and Mycroft slept fairly heavily, so if the phone rang just once before he answered it, it wouldn't wake them.

"Find me a piece of paper and a pen," Sherlock told John, his voice just as soft as the other boy's had been. It was exciting, doing this behind their parents' backs, especially when they were (as far as Sherlock could tell) only a few feet from them.

"There must be something around here...oh! No, just give me your number and I'll call you. I have a really, _really_ good memory; I'll remember it." Sherlock tapped his ear. "Here, whisper it to me."

John, too, smiled a little because what they were doing was going to be sneaky, and maybe it was because John was just a young boy, but there was always a sense of excitement he got when doing something he wasn't supposed to. Or, as his mum put it, 'being naughty'.

He leaned in and put his hand on Sherlock's face, cupping his hand around his mouth as he breathed out the nine digits into the boy's ear that he had memorized so well because his mum made him. Thankfully, neither of the adults seemed to notice their little plan.

He was a little nervous that Sherlock might forget, though. How could anyone remember a bunch of random numbers without accidentally forgetting one? John couldn't do that; he _always_ had to write them down.

"Don't forget, okay?" he murmured to him, pulling away again, and it was at that moment that the adults turned around, bags in hand. John's father cleared his throat and spoke to him.

"Okay John. Say thank you, we need to go home now."

John looked up at Sherlock's mother and offered her a smile before doing as his father told him and thanking her again, as sincerely as he could make himself sound.

They began to all head towards the exit and John felt his father's hand wrap around his own, and John turned to look at Sherlock. He started to wave, but remembered he wouldn't be able to see it, and reached for his hand to hold it, briefly.

"Bye, Sherlock."

Sherlock committed John's number to memory. It wasn't even by choice; he often didn't choose to remember things, he just _did._ Mycroft was going to teach him how to control his memory one of these days, but that had been put on hold ever since Sherlock's vision had started to wane worse and worse.

"Bye, John," he repeated softly, looking down at their joined hands even though he couldn't see them. He didn't want his new friend to leave already, but there was nothing he could do about it. The most he could do was call, and he was most certainly going to call him tonight.

"Come along, dear," his mother said, taking his hand so she could guide him out of the store. As soon as they left the store, the cold wind made Sherlock shiver, and he pushed his scarf up so it was protecting his nose and mouth. He could hear so many people around, talking and laughing, babies crying. Some people brushed past him as he walked, taking each step slowly and carefully, and he wondered again why John had _growled_ in the store. Maybe he really had just been playing pretend.

It took longer than it should have for them to get back to the car, since Sherlock had to walk slowly and his mother had to instruct him whenever a patch of ice or a pothole in the ground was near. He got into the front passenger seat and buckled up his seatbelt. As soon as his mother turned the car on, Christmas music started to play through the car stereo.

His mother loved Christmas.

"John was nice, wasn't he?"

Sherlock agreed with her, but he didn't want to seem too excited. He knew Mycroft would make fun of him if their mother told him about it. He decided to say, simply, "Yes, he was."

"I made his father quite uncomfortable, didn't I? I didn't mean to. I just wanted the poor boy to have something nice for Christmas. That old toy he was carrying around has seen better days."

Wilma kept talking, as she normally did, but Sherlock ignored her in favour of leaning his head against the window. He wished he could look at it, and he regretted every time he'd gone past it and thought about how boring it was. He would give his entire left arm to be able to see it again.

Once they were home, Sherlock felt his way to his room. His father asked him if he'd had fun at the shops and Sherlock just said that he had, rather than starting an actual conversation. He set both toys down on his desk and opened up the scent-creator. As he expected, no part of the instructions were in braille, so he would have to put off playing with it until he got some sort of idea how.

The rest of the night went by slowly, just because Sherlock was eager for it to get late. At dinner, he listened with disinterest as his father talked about his day at work, and both he and Mycroft left the table as quickly as they could. Sherlock went to his room and continued reading one of the biology books he had. It wasn't his favourite subject, at all, but it had been a cheap braille book and he'd been desperate to have _anything._

At nine o'clock, his mother tucked him into bed, with the customary forehead kiss and song. As soon as she left the room, Sherlock got his book out from under the pillow and continued to read. One of the good things (one of the _few_ good things) about being blind was that he didn't need a light to read by.

When his alarm clock spoke 'eleven PM', Sherlock decided to risk calling. Was it late enough? He hoped it was. He didn't want to wait any longer to call John, so he sneaked out of his room and down the hall, feeling his way along the walls. The phone was in the living room, approximately one-hundred yards from his bedroom.

The couch...his father's armchair...the coffee table...ah! The end table by his mother's chair, where the phone sat. Sherlock counted to ten and then dialed the nine digits John had told him, holding his breath as the phone started to ring.

John didn't want to seem too eager than day, but he was, and it showed in the way that he kept glancing over at the phone on the hook. He didn't know if Sherlock were going to call him that day, or the next, or maybe not at all, (what if he _did_ forget his number?) but there was a stirring of excitement in his stomach that came from anticipation.

He did his best to stay away after he had been put to sleep, tried to keep his eyes open in the dark so he wouldn't accidentally fall asleep, and when he finally heard his parents going to their room and closing the door, he pushed off the covers and quickly and quietly left his own room, careful to sneak past Harry's door so he could go and get the wireless phone and bring it back to his room.

Just in case.

Of course, sleep was starting to get to him, and as he laid in bed with the phone on his chest, his eyes began to slowly drift shut.

His dad had told his mum about the incident in the park that day, and his mother had given John a long, _long_ talk about how dangerous it was to go wandering off and talking to strangers because 'what if they found out, John? _What if?!_ Do you realise what could have happened?'

John wished he didn't have this same talk all the time. He didn't see what the big deal was. It was just... who he was. He couldn't help that he was like this anymore than someone couldn't help the colour of their skin or hair colour. People could understand that, right?

He ran his hand through hair; short and the colour of straw, on top of which his ears finally had room to stand up. His fingers traced their soft texture. He rolled over to his stomach, and where there had earlier that day been nothing, was now a hole cut out of the back of his pyjama bottoms, out of which a long, shaggy, golden-haired tail hung. It didn't move, but there was no reason for it to, as John was completely calm and content.

And then, a sudden ring, and John's eyes snapped open and he breathed out a little gasp. He knew who it was even before he picked up. Nobody else would ever call their home this late at night, so with fumbling hands, John quickly pressed the 'talk' button and scrambled to get under the covers.

"Hello, Sherlock?"

He pulled the covers down tightly over his head until he were in his own little cave. He could tell who it was by the breathing on the other end and the quiet voice, and his tail swished gently back and forth.

"You have a really good memory," he told the other boy.

"Hi, John."

Sherlock was truly excited to hear the other boy's voice. It was almost embarrassing how glad he was to be talking to him again. It had only been a few hours since they had last seen each other, and yet he had barely been able to wait until eleven, much less any later.

He had never talked to someone on the phone just for the sake of talking. At least, nobody other than his mother and father. He had never even talked to his grandparents on the phone, or his aunts and uncles or cousins. Sherlock just had no interest in any of them.

Sherlock sat down in his mother's chair and pulled his knees up to his chest. The phone was held snugly between his ear and his shoulder. His heart was beating fast from excitement, the excitement that came from talking to John and also from wondering whether he would get caught. He didn't want to, but there was a certain amount of danger that came along with doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. Some children would be deterred from doing things they knew their parents didn't want them to, but Sherlock had never been like most other children.

"I have a _great_ memory," Sherlock corrected John. "I can remember a lot of things. Like, the first one-hundred digits of pi. And the periodic table of the elements. I'm learning French, too. I know six-hundred and nineteen words so far. Do you speak French?"

Sherlock had wanted to learn German first, but his mother had coerced him into putting it off until he was fluent in French, just because they sometimes went to Paris on holiday and it would be better for him to know how to communicate with the locals if something were to happen to him, or if he got separated from his family. Also, he would need to know how to read the braille signs, menus, and maps.

John didn't ever talk to anyone on the phone. He didn't have anyone _to_ talk to, really, and he wasn't even entirely certain what one was supposed to do, but his mum did it all the time. She could talk on the phone for hours and John never knew what she could be talking about, but she would always walk around the house with the phone against her ear as she cleaned the living room or poured her coffee or sometimes she would sit out on the back porch and stare at John as he played while she talked.

There was so many possibilities of things to talk about, but he was happy that Sherlock was leading the conversation because it took a little of the pressure of.

"I don't speak French," John said. "I'm homeschooled right now, so I just know basic stuff like Maths and grammar and stuff. It's boring. Do you go to school to learn all that? I bet you go to a private school, don't you?"

He shifted a little, turning on one side so he could face the wall from beneath the covers, if just to muffle his voice even more. The last thing he needed was for his parents to wake up to the sound of him talking.

"Have you played with your new toy yet? Mum told me I don't get mine until tomorrow. Did you know that she almost made me take them back?" John made a face, nose scrunched up. "She finally let me keep them, though."

He paused, then, as he thought for a moment. "What are you going to do with the first one-hundred digits of pi, anyway?"

The child-like nature of the conversation escaped Sherlock, just for the simple fact that he _was_ a child. He had heard his parents talk on the phone, and even Mycroft sometimes, and they would always use big words and get excited or angry or upset, Father especially when he was talking to people he worked with.

"I don't go to a private school," Sherlock told the other boy. His voice was soft, even though his parents' and Mycroft's bedrooms were rather far from where he was. "I'm homeschooled, too. I'm teaching myself French. Mycroft helps me sometimes, though, if there are words I can't figure out."

Fortunately, that didn't happen very often.

"I haven't played with my toy yet, no. I took it out of the box, though. I won't be able to play with it until somebody reads me the directions. They didn't write them in braille." Sherlock frowned. "It's too bad your father doesn't seem to want us being friends. You could come over and play with it with me, and you could read the directions. You have a good nose, don't you? I do, too, but it's because I'm blind. You aren't blind, so your nose must just be _really_ good."

Sherlock had never met anyone whose nose was as good as John's. It made him laugh softly as a thought came to him.

"You can almost smell as good as a dog."

Sherlock had always wanted a dog. His mother and father had always told him that he had to wait until Mycroft went away to University, because Mycroft hated animals. That was still three years or so away, but maybe they would let him get one early now that he was blind. It would be yet another one of the few good things that came from his impairment.

"And to answer your question, I'm not going to do anything with the first one-hundred digits of pi, silly. It has ten-trillion digits. That's how many they know about right now, anyway. I want to see how many of them I can learn. The most anyone has memorised so far is one-hundred thousand. I want to beat him."

John may not have known really any other kids, but he was pretty certain none of them were like this boy.

"Trillion?!" he repeated in disbelief, mouth opening wide. That was a number truly unfathomable to John, who still sometimes had trouble with decimals and making sure he could even read long numbers properly. He couldn't probably even accurately read one-hundred thousand, much less memorize that many numbers.

"What are they even good for, anyway? And how come it's named 'pi'? Seems silly."

John rolled over to his back again and he lifted a hand to scratch the back of his ears. It never felt as good as if someone else did it, but nobody ever did. Not in a long time, and he would be lying if he said he didn't crave the affection.

"My dad doesn't like when I go talking to strangers," John said with a little shrug. "He thinks I'm going to get into trouble or something, but I've never done anything to get into trouble."

John wanted to say, 'he doesn't want people finding out about me', but didn't. Sherlock would want to know what about him couldn't be found out, and then he wouldn't want to talk to him anymore. He would be grossed out by him, or maybe think he was a freak.

That's what he had heard, before. Not to his face, but he'd heard his parents hushed whispers, because his hearing was better than most.

'We shouldn't have agreed to this,' his father would sometimes say. 'We should _never_ have-'

And then his mum would cut in that they had to do because John was only a child and it wasn't his fault...

But John never knew what they were talking about when he heard strange words like 'Baskerville' or 'experiments'.

John just ignored it because he was young and he usually found other things to take his attention.

He smirked a little bit when Sherlock said he had a nose like a dog and John felt his tail begin to sway from beneath his body, against the mattress.

"If I lived closer, I could sneak out," John whispered, like it was a big, dark secret. "I could come to your house and read you those directions and we could make funny smells like the ocean again, and then we could really pretend we were pirate hunters out at sea."

He giggled a little closed his eyes under the dark covers, picturing it.

"I'll be your first mate."

Sherlock was thrilled by the idea of John playing pirates with him. He was even more thrilled that John had said, willingly, that he would be Sherlock's first mate. Whenever Mycroft would play with him, Sherlock had to _plead_ with his brother to let him be captain.

Even then, Mycroft didn't always let it happen that way, and if he did, he would be sour and only play for a little bit.

Grinning, Sherlock joined John in laughing, although his laugh was softer and more controlled. Refined, one might call it. His was a chuckle, whereas John's was an outright giggle.

"That would be fun," Sherlock told John. He was already picturing it, him and John playing pirates and hunters and making new scents together. They both had good noses and they could test each other and see if they could identify the smells without looking at them.

That would be especially easy for Sherlock, since he couldn't see in the first place.

Then again, John's nose was better, so maybe he wouldn't win after all.

Sherlock licked his lips and got up from his mother's chair. He walked over to the bookshelf by the fireplace and felt for his shelf (the third one up from the ground), counting the books alphabetically until he got to one of his favourites.

"Do you like Christmas, John?" he asked softly, as he moved to the sofa so he could lie down on his stomach, the book in front of him.

"I think it's okay. I like getting presents, but I don't think Santa is real. I have a book that I like, though. It's called 'How the Grinch Stole Christmas', and it's about this mean old furry green man who hates Christmas and tries to steal it. Have you ever read it? I can read it to you. I have it memorised. I even remember what the pictures look like."

Sherlock didn't like all fictional things, but he did like this. The Grinch was smart and ruthless, and the people of Whoville got all sorts of strange presents. Sherlock knew none of it was real, but he still found it a _little_ entertaining.

He never told Mycroft that, though.

John only knew the story of the Grinch from what he had seen on the telly every year, but he always came in halfway through so he didn't actually know the whole story. It was probably going to be on more often nowadays since Christmas was coming up soon and John decided since Sherlock brought it up, he should watch it.

Or he could let Sherlock read it to him.

"I like Christmas Carol best," John told him. "I like the ghosts in it and the time travel. Well. It's not really time travel I think, it's like magic."

He wished he could see what Sherlock looked like then, or what he was doing at his house. Or even what his house looked like. John's house was small, nothing special. One floor and John's room was at the very end on the left. There was some chipping paint in some areas and there were usually dishes in the sink, but it wasn't dirty. Just a bit...lower income than what he would see in the movies.

"I like Christmas okay," he said. "Father Christmas doesn't bring me too much usually, but sometimes I'll get something good. I asked for a mini motor bike, but my mum says Father he can't make those."

He shifted a little bit to roll on his back, but made sure the covers were still tucked under his head.

"Hold on," he told Sherlock, then set down the phone on his bed before poking his head out and reaching under his bed. On the floor, there was one of his stuffed animals, one that was particularly chewed up around the ears, and pulled it back up to the bed with him before tucking himself back under the covers again and into the dark. He brought the phone back up to his ear.

"Okay," he said. "Well go on. Read me the story."

Sherlock didn't know how John could believe in Father Christmas. It was inconceivable, thinking that one man rode in a sleigh piloted by sleigh that went to the home of every child in only one night. Besides, if Father Christmas was as fat as he was usually portrayed, how did he even fit down the chimney?

He didn't exist.

Sherlock didn't say that again, though, because he found himself not wanting to hurt John's feelings, even though he thought it was silly for him to believe in the bearded man in the first place.

Sherlock opened the book and traced his finger over the first page. He remembered when his father had first read it to him two years ago; he had found the story charming, if a bit (a lot) silly. The silliness only made him like it more, however, and directed his gaze to where he knew the words to be, even though he couldn't see them.

"Every Who down in Whoville," he began softly, "liked Christmas a lot. But the Grinch, who lived just north of Whoville, did _not_."

Sherlock looked at the opposite page, where he knew was an illustration of the Grinch, a very grumpy expression on his face, leaning against the entrance of his cave, with his hands in his pockets.

"The Grinch _hated_ Christmas, the whole Christmas season. Now, please don't ask why, no-one quite knows the reason. It _could_ be his head wasn't screwed on just right. It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight. But I think that the most likely reason of all may have been that his heart was two sizes too small."

Sherlock crinkled his nose. He had been reading the story with emphasis on certain words, just like his father had read it to him, but when he spoke next, his voice had returned to normal.

"Don't you think someone would be dead if their heart was two sizes too small?"

Sherlock made a good point. A heart that was two-sizes too small must have been _really_ small, (not that John knew how big a heart was) but maybe Grinches naturally had smaller hearts.

"Maybe he's deformed," John told him, and his own little deformity of a tail began to sway once more. "I bet he's got a condition and that's the real reason he's such a jerk. Though I've had shoes that were too tight, too, and it's _really_ annoying. I would be grumpy too."

He closed his eyes again and pictured the story so far. He imagined the picture he had seen from the show, with his wicked smile and his fluffy looking feet. He liked the way Sherlock emphasized the words. It really set the mood. Having the phone so close made it feel like Sherlock were right there, whispering in his ear.

"What would you do if you saw a Grinch?" John asked him. "Would you be afraid of one? I don't think I would be."

Sherlock had never considered that before. He'd always thought the Grinch's heart was two sizes too small because he was mean, but what if it was an actual deformity that he was born with and couldn't help? That was how it was with Sherlock's blindness. He hadn't _chosen_ to be blind; it had just happened because of his genes.

"I don't think I would be afraid of one, either," Sherlock admitted. Although, remembering what the picture of the Grinch looked like...he wasn't entirely sure. He had long, furry fingers, and Sherlock could imagine them beckoning to him, trying to coax him into his van just like the little girl's father had done to those other children. If the Grinch stole Christmas, would he steal children, too?

Sherlock continued reading the Dr. Seuss story, telling John about the Whos' toys, their feast, their singing, and then how the Grinch decided he was going to steal Christmas. He sewed a suit, put antlers on his dog Max, and then he rode a sleigh down into Whoville and went down the chimney of the first Who-house.

"Then he slid down the chimney," Sherlock continued, "A rather tight pinch. But if Santa could do it, then so could the Grinch. He got stuck only once, for a moment or two, then he stuck his head out of the fireplace flue, where the little Who stockings all hung in a row. These stockings, he said, are the first thing to go."

Then he took the lights, the presents, the food from the icebox, and he stuffed the tree up the chimney. Cindy-Lou Who confronted the Grinch and he lied about being Santa, gave her water and sent her back to bed. He collected all the presents from all the other homes, all the decorations and food, and when his sleigh was packed, he went back up his hill and listened for the crying of the Whos when they realised that Christmas was gone.

But instead they sang!

Sherlock finished the rest of the story, about how the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day. "And he," he finished, "He _himself_ carved the roast beast."

Sherlock grinned as he closed the book. "That's my favourite Christmas story. There's a movie about it, too. Two of them, actually. I haven't seen either. I don't watch very much telly...now, especially."

John listened and listened and listened to the story, making all his comments and little gasps at the appropriate times, (such as when something particularly devious was happening) but it all ended well, and the Grinch even became one of the good guys at the end. It was a good story, and he decided he liked it.

He especially liked the part about Max and the antlers.

He felt tired, though, after the story was over, and he stretched a little and rolled on to his stomach.

"I can't believe you memorized all that," he said, and he was genuinely impressed. John had an okay memory, but nothing like _that._ "There isn't a lot on telly anyway," he told him. "Sometimes things are okay, but the really good stuff I can't watch because mum says it's not appropriate for me. So I like to go outside a lot instead."

He couldn't help but wonder what it was that Sherlock did now, though. If he couldn't see, then he couldn't watch telly or movies or go running around much. If you saw nothing, then how did you...do anything, really?

He wasn't sure he should ask, though, so he didn't. Instead he said, "When are you coming to the park again? Dad might not take me again because it's cold outside and he doesn't like sitting in the cold unless there's a pretty woman to talk to. That's the only reason we were there so long today."

Sherlock was pleased that John was impressed by how he had memorised the entire book. It was because he'd read it four times. He knew all the words and he knew which words were on which page, and even what each and every one of the pictures looked like.

"My mum tells me that a lot of things on telly are inappropriate, too. I go outside sometimes, and I do a lot of experiments and read. I like to read a lot. I don't have very many books in braille now, though, but I think I'll get some more for Christmas. I hope I do."

After yawning softly, Sherlock rolled over onto his back. He stretched his arm back behind his head, propping it up, and then sighed.

Sherlock didn't understand why John's father only iked to sit in the park if there was a pretty woman. Sherlock didn't think girls had cooties or anything of the sort, but what was so great about talking to _anyone_? Well, anyone besides John. John was fine.

"Your father should talk to your mom," Sherlock pointed out. "I don't think my mother would be very happy if my father talked to pretty women and she didn't know about it. Then again, I don't know if it'd be better if she did know about it. Maybe both would be bad."

Maybe John's father and mother were different, though. Sherlock didn't know.

"I don't know when I'll go to the park again, but I wish I did, so I could tell you. Then maybe we could meet." Sherlock frowned. "My birthday is on January sixth. Maybe our parents would let you come over for cake and ice cream. Do you like cake?"

"I like cake okay. I love ice cream. My favorite is strawberry, especially if there is chunks of strawberry in it."

John felt his stomach grumble at just the thought of having a big slice of cake and a side of ice cream with it and his mouth nearly watered. Or maybe it did, just a little bit.

"Do you have birthday parties?" John asked, rolling to his back, and although he didn't know it, and had no way to know it, he was mimicking the exact position Sherlock was currently laying in. He pushed down the covers a little bit so he could get a little air. "My birthday is in July. I don't have a lot of parties, though. I don't know a lot of other people my age, so it's usually just my sister and my parents. I'm trying to get mum to let me transfer to a real school so maybe I can have a real one sometime."

He would definitely ask if he could go to Sherlock's birthday though, if he decided to have one. It would be his first, but John wasn't naive enough not to know how they worked. Kids came, brought gifts, played games, ate cake. Fun stuff.

"I bet they will say yes, if I ask," John murmured. After all, Sherlock was blind so he couldn't really see John's little affliction. His parents, yes, but he wasn't going to be playing with them.

Nobody had to know.

Sherlock made sure to remember that John's favourite kind of ice cream was strawberry. It wasn't his favourite, but if John did get to come to his birthday party (such as it was), he wanted there to be something that John liked for him to eat.

Sherlock didn't have parties. He'd never bothered. He didn't have any friends, and he didn't really like his extended family, his aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins, so why would he have wanted any of them to come and spend time with him? He _didn't_.

Although, they did bring him presents sometime. He still didn't like them, but the presents were always nice to have.

Except when they were bad presents and his mother and father still made him say 'thank you'. He didn't like that.

"I want to transfer to a real school, too," Sherlock told John, even though there was a part of him (a _small_ part!) that was afraid of what it would be like to go to a real school now that he was blind. Would people be mean to him, or would they help him, like John did?

Maybe if John went with him...

Sherlock inhaled in surprise at his own thought, the sound coming out as a gasp. "We could go to the same school!"

That would be _brilliant_. John could help get him to his classes and help him with things he couldn't see, like what his teacher wrote on the board and what the books said, and he could help John with his homework because he was _smart_.

"If you come to my party, and it goes well, maybe our parents would let us go to school together," he said excitedly. "Why wouldn't they let us?"

John's tail instinctively, (and completely beyond his control) began to sway from side to side, just a little bit quicker at the thought of getting to do what Sherlock had suggested. They had only just met that morning, but John liked Sherlock. He was nice to John and had seemed interesting; John certainly hadn't ever known any other kid who did experiments or knew one-hundred thousand digits of pi. He certainly didn't know any other kid who was blind, even if that part didn't seem as important to John. It was a part of him, but he seemed to be adjusting easily enough to it, wasn't he?

"I don't know," John agreed. "It would be stupid not to."

He sat up into a sitting position and the covers pooled in his lap. He glanced around his dark room and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"But where would we go? I don't live in London like you do. How could we go to the same school if we don't live in the same place?"

John's question was an excellent one, but Sherlock didn't have an answer for it. Was that how school worked? You had to live close to people in order to go to school with them? Oh...that wouldn't work out well for them, then, because Sherlock was in London and John wasn't. Darn!

Even asking their parents to drive them to and from school wouldn't work. That would be far too much work, and Sherlock knew his parents wouldn't go along with it. If they went to a school for really, really smart boys, where they got to live with on campus, then it wouldn't matter where they lived before going to school, but that would be expensive and John probably wouldn't be able to afford it.

If he was smart enough, maybe he could get a scholarship, but Sherlock didn't know how smart you had to be to win one of those. He just knew that he was smart enough to do so.

"I guess it was a bad idea," Sherlock said glumly, feeling his heart sink a little. It hadn't seemed so at first, but now that he realised there was no way to actually make it happen, he felt silly for ever suggesting it in the first place.

"Maybe we'll have to wait until we can drive to see each other again. That'll be...nine years." He frowned. "That's a really, really long time. That's even longer than I've been alive."

John, too, felt himself deflate a little bit at the thought that it would be nine whole years before they got to see each other again. Would Sherlock even _remember_ John in nine years? Would John? John didn't even know where he would be by them, and he certainly didn't know if it were even possible to remember someone for that long.

"I guess so," John said sadly. He looked around his room again, pausing to stare at the door and listen in case he heard anything from the other side. He really, really didn't like the idea that Sherlock could forget about him, but he didn't know what he could do about it. There was no way that his parents would let him freely go and have a friend who lived in the city; they would be too afraid that John would get into some sort of trouble or draw too much unwanted attention to himself in a place that was so crowded with adults, and because Sherlock was blind, his parents weren't going to just let him come to John's house on his own.

It seemed that their chance meeting in the park was just that. A chance.

"You can still call sometimes," John offered softly. "And I'll promise that I won't forget you if you do the same. And then when we get older we can do stuff together and play pirate hunters and you can do experiments and I can watch you."

Sherlock didn't want to have to wait until he got older to play with John, but it didn't seem like they had any other choice. At least that was an option, though. That was better than nothing, wasn't it? It wasn't what Sherlock would have preferred, but he would take it if it was all he was going to get.

"I'll still call you sometime," Sherlock promised. "How about every Thursday night?"

That way, John could make sure that he was always by the phone, if they did it at the same time, on the same night, every week. It would be much easier than him just keeping a phone nearby, or remaining by the phone himself, and it would spare Sherlock having to get up and feeling his way into the living room for the phone.

"Oh, and I won't forget you, either. You know how good I am at remembering things, right? So I won't forget about you, because I really, really don't want to."

Sherlock would think about John everyday if that was what it took to remember him. He was a nice boy and the only one that Sherlock even knew, so of course he didn't want to forget about his new friend.

Or whatever John was to him.

Sherlock had just thought of another question to ask John when he heard a rather loud cough coming from down the hall. It startled him so much that he nearly dropped the phone, but he held it up to his ear and whispered, "I have to go. Bye, John," before quickly hanging it up.

Sherlock clicked the phone off and then sat in the dark, silent. He heard more coughing and then Mycroft's heavy footsteps as his brother crossed the hall and went into the bathroom. Sherlock could hear water going into a cup and then the sound of pills rattling, then his brother set the cup back down and returned to his room. Mycroft hadn't been feeling well in the morning; maybe he was getting a cold.

Once Mycroft's door was shut, Sherlock crept back to his room. His fingertips brushed against the walls as he counted six, seven, eight, nine, ten feet, and then found the opening of his bedroom door. It was fifteen steps from the door to his bed, and then Sherlock crawled up into it and pulled the blanket over his body.

He went to sleep thinking about John, and he even dreamed about him. He had no idea what John looked like, but in his dreams he could see him perfectly all the same.


	4. Chapter 4

John wasn't very happy after he hung up the phone with Sherlock; a sadness had seemed to settle in him at the possibility that, even if Sherlock did call him every Thursday night, they wouldn't ever get to actually play together ever. It was the first almost-sort-of-friend that John had made and because of his...little affliction, he wasn't going to be able to see him.

It wasn't fair.

John didn't feel this way about any other kid or family member, so he didn't know why he felt such a strong connection to the other boy, but he just found himself wanting to be near him.

He hoped he would be getting his cane soon so he wouldn't get lost again.

But John put the thought away and did the only thing he could do; go to bed.

Only it didn't seem to get any better in the following days.

Every day the phone rang, John would look up suddenly and rush over to where his mum picked it up, looking up at her with big eyes, (much to her confusion) and wait to hear who was on the other end.

Always, with disappointment, it was never who he thought.

By the fourth day of this, in which John found himself waking himself up in the middle of the night whining softly to himself, (and he was only embarrassed by it if Harry heard him, which had only been once) he groaned and rolled over on his side to card his fingers through his blonde hair, trying desperately to get the image of the curly-haired boy out of his head and calm his slightly racing heart.

Pathetic! What was wrong with him?!

He didn't have Sherlock's phone number, so he couldn't call him. He didn't know his last name, or where he lived. All he knew was his name, and that was...it.

The next time Sherlock called him, he would have to figure out something.

The next several days, Sherlock was bored. He felt restless. One of the worst things about being blind, for him (and probably everyone else), was the fact that he felt like he was trapped inside of his own head. And really, he was. He couldn't open his eyes and look around to distract himself; he couldn't watch telly or stare at pictures or scenery. Nothing. He was just _stuck_.

Of course Sherlock had a wonderful memory, and he had images in his head of his parents, Mycroft, his room, his front and backyards, the neighbouring houses and buildings and roads...he could picture all of those things, but it wasn't the same as actually being able to see them. Nothing would replace that.

He decided it would have been better if he'd been born blind. He would never have known what it was like to see, then, and he wouldn't know what he was missing out on now. It would be black, all the time, and he would be fine with that because he wouldn't know any better.

Sherlock did some more work on learning braille. He knew the alphabet and was now just getting used to feeling words and sentences, paragraphs and passages. It was weird that he had to learn how to read all over, but he was doing so very quickly. While she was in the kitchen baking banana bread, his mother quizzed him on his French vocabulary. He was doing excellently with that, too.

Sherlock spent a lot of time thinking about John. He wanted to know where John lived, what he was doing, if he was thinking about _him_. He wondered if John had smelled any weird smells lately, or if he had helped any other little boys find their parents. He wondered if John was playing hunter or wolf, and if he'd used his toy gun at all. He hoped John's mother had let him have it like she'd said she was going to.

Thursday finally arrived. Sherlock couldn't wait to call John. He set his little alarm clock to go off at eleven, and he tucked it beneath his pillow so the sound would be muffled when it chimed. He fell asleep for a few hours and then woke up to the soft music coming from the clock. When he opened his bedroom door, intending to go to the living room to call John, he heard both his mother and father there, talking. Argh!

There was nothing to do but wait until they went to bed. Fortunately, it only took them twenty-two minutes to do so (Sherlock counted them off), and when he heard snoring coming from their bedroom, he slowly walked down the hallway and dialed John's number, which was still fresh in his mind.

John had made sure he was awake for when Sherlock called him, but for just a moment, he was afraid that Sherlock had forgotten about him when his alarm clock blinked 11:05, 11:10, 11:25...

He felt himself deflating all over again and he hated that he couldn't shake this strange sense of disappointment, (because truly, John couldn't help it; it wasn't normal, not at all, but he didn't know quite how to explain to his parents that he felt this way. They wouldn't understand; he had only met Sherlock once!).

But then, the phone rang, and John picked it up so quickly that he almost forgot to even say 'hello' when he lifted it up to his face.

Immediately, his tail began to wag.

"Sherlock," he breathed, and immediately he yanked the covers up over his head. "I've been thinking about you all week and I realized I don't know your last name and so I don't know how to tell my parents about you."

He paused, ears twitching as he listened for any sign of movement from outside his room. His parents had been asleep for only a half an hour or so, but he knew that Harry was awake, still, and watching telly.

"Did you ever get a cane? You haven't gotten lost again, have you?"

A small smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock's lips as soon as he heard John's voice. He wanted to outright smile, but in the back of his head were Mycroft's words-'Stop _smiling_ , Sherlock.'

Mycroft didn't think it was decent to smile so much, he supposed, although Sherlock couldn't understand why. Weren't smiles supposed to be good things? Mycroft had always been strange, but even Sherlock thought _that_ was a step too far. Even so, Mycroft was smarter than he was...so maybe he was right.

"I got a cane," he affirmed. "And my last name is Holmes."

John was talking so fast that Sherlock barely had time to reply, or to answer his questions or make any comments of his own, but he didn't mind. His mind was able to dissect each and every thing that John said, piecing it together and filing it away inside his mind as best he could.

"Your last name is Watson," Sherlock told the other boy, feeling a bit superior (when didn't he?) because he knew something about John that John hadn't known about him. "I heard my mother tell my father about _your_ father. She said he was very nice but also...'on-edge'. Do you know what that means?"

Even though Sherlock couldn't see, he couldn't imagine that John's father had been standing on any edges right in the middle of a toy store.

"Have you been playing with your gun? I've played with my sword. I made a mark on the wall, and I had to go to bed without dinner. I wasn't very hungry, anyway, so I didn't mind."

"My dad is always like that," John mumbled, even more quietly in the off chance that he would be heard. "It means he's always mad or afraid or something." It wasn't that his dad was mean, per say, but he was... tense. All the time. He leaned more on the cool side, wasn't as warm as the dad's John would always see on the streets with their kids. It was like he was keeping his distance for a reason. His mum was certainly better, but even she had moments where she looked at John a little too long and John couldn't figure out what it was she was thinking.

"I played with my toy a little bit, but it was too cold out and mum made me come inside, and she doesn't like when I play rough in the house. She thinks I'm going to break something."

John didn't mind the cold, though. In fact, he enjoyed it. It felt good to him, and although he still needed to bundle up in a big coat on the colder days, he could stay outside all day and he wouldn't mind it.

"We're going to London this weekend," John informed Sherlock in another whisper. "I'm going to beg my mum to go to the park for a little bit. You should do that, too. My mum is nicer than my dad so she might even talk to your parents more than my dad did. Do you think they'll let you?"

Sherlock felt suddenly hopeful upon hearing that John would be in London in only a few days. The day after tomorrow, wouldn't it be? Assuming Saturday was what he considered 'this weekend'. London was a huge city, but maybe, just maybe, they could see one another, if John was able to convince his mother to take him to the park.

And if Sherlock was able to convince his own parents, too.

"I think they might," he whispered back. "I'll have to ask them...maybe I can tell them that you told me last week that you would be at the park. I'll try to be there at two o'clock on Saturday. That'll give my parents time to run any errands they might want to do, and hopefully it won't be too crowded, either."

Sherlock was hopeful, yes, but he also knew that he shouldn't be getting his hopes up. Just because they would both be in London at the same time didn't mean they would see each other. It was the worst possible kind of tease, knowing that they were so close and yet so far from each other, and it made Sherlock wish that he was older than eight (and not for the first time).

"I won't be able to bring my sword, if I come," Sherlock told the other boy, frowning. "Mother and Father won't want me carrying it around with me. I heard them talking once; they say I attract attention. They don't mind, but I think it annoys them that people stare at me." Sherlock shrugged. "I guess I don't really care about it. It's not like I can see anyone doing it."

Of course Sherlock would have preferred that people not stare at him, but he might have done the same if he were able to see and saw a little boy wearing sunglasses and a cane. Not to be mean, but just out of curiosity. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?

A smile tugged at John's mouth as he heard Sherlock tell him that he could tell his parents-and it was only a little white lie-that John had told him the week prior what the plan was. It was perfect. Fool proof, really. Who was to really know? It wasn't like John or Sherlock was going to spill the beans.

"That's okay," John said. "We can just pretend. I won't go easy on you though and I'm really good."

He smirked a little bit and his tail swished back and forth slowly before his smirk began to fade.

What if Sherlock happened to...notice? John would have to be careful, certainly, because if he suddenly brushed up against him or made too many strange noises, like what had happened in the store, Sherlock was bound to notice and bound to not want to play with him anymore. John could easily detect the question and weariness in his voice when he had asked why John had growled, but it really _had_ been unintentional.

Those boys were being too rough around him.

"I can meet you...oh, I guess you wouldn't be able to tell, would you? Do you remember what the park looks like? We could meet by the pond. My mum likes to sit there sometimes and watch the ducks."

"I remember the park," Sherlock said quickly. Of course he remembered the park. He was intimately familiar with the sandbox area, the playground equipment, the small pond. He knew where several anthills were, although they might be in different places now.

"We can meet by the pond," he agreed. "I know where it is. And I can tell my parents that we're meeting there, and they'll help me get there if I can't do it by myself. But I hope I can. I like doing things by myself."

That being said, Sherlock also liked John. He had thought about the other boy throughout the week, wondering what he was doing and if he was thinking about him, too. Sherlock wanted John to think he was smart, even though he was blind. He wanted John to think he was, for lack of a better word, cool.

"I don't want you to go easy on me, by the way. I want you to make it really, really hard for me to win. I like things when they're hard, just as long as they don't stay hard. Most things aren't hard for me, so when something is, I like it."

Learning how to live without eyesight was hard, but Sherlock didn't say that. He was getting used to it, slowly but surely, because he didn't have any other choice. There was no way for him to go back to how he had been before; he was stuck in the darkness for the rest of his life. All he could do was try to distract himself as best he could.

Which was sometimes easier than others.

Sherlock wet his lips. There was a question burning in his mind, and he decided that he would just go forward and ask it, rather than forever wondering.

"Did you think about me this week? I thought about you sometime. My neighbour came over to visit Mother and she brought her dog. It growled. It sounded just like you did in the toy store. I thought it was funny. You must make a really good wolf when you play make-believe."

When Sherlock told John that he had thought about him sometimes, John felt his chest tighten and a warmness spread over his face. His fingers threaded into his covers and he smiled, but he tried to make sure it didn't show too much in his voice.

"Almost every day," John told him. He couldn't say every day, though, because he didn't want Sherlock thinking he was pathetic. He still wanted Sherlock to think he was cool.

If he did at all.

He paused, then, and wet his own lips before asking Sherlock what was on _his_ mind.

"Do you...like dogs?" he asked him, trying not to sound like he cared, necessarily, but he was curious. "Do you have one? We don't. But I can do...good impressions, sometimes. But I don't play wolves all the time or anything," he added quickly. "Just sometimes."

If Sherlock didn't like dogs, then John decided he would most certainly have to make sure he was careful around him.

Even though John couldn't see him, Sherlock nodded.

"I _lov_ e dogs."

He had always wanted one, but his mother and father had always said no because of Mycroft. While Sherlock was hoping they would let him get one, now-maybe to make him feel better after losing his sight-he wasn't very hopeful.

"I don't have one, either, but I want one. I want a seeing eye dog!" Even just talking about it made Sherlock excited. "I would teach him tricks, and take care of him, and pet him. He could sleep in my bed with me at night. And, when I go out, he would help me cross the street when it was safe, and if I got lost, he would help."

It sounded so exciting to Sherlock, and he wished he could convince his parents how great of an idea it was. Even so, though, he knew Mycroft would hate having a dog in the house, and his parents wouldn't want to make such a big change that was unfair to one of their sons.

Even though Sherlock being blind in the first place was unfair to _him_.

"What about cats?" Sherlock asked, just for the sake of keeping a conversation going. He didn't talk to people often, certainly no-one besides his family, so it was very different now, talking to John. "I think they're okay, but they're boring. I wouldn't want one. You can't do anything with them; you can't teach them anything. I would much rather have a dog."

John didn't like cats. Not just because they were boring or because they didn't do anything but walk around or sleep, but because every time he saw one, they always seemed to hiss at him, (and give him a nasty look, if animals were able) and John always had the desire to chase after them just because he could.

But he was very, very pleased to hear that Sherlock liked dogs. That made a warmth spread through his chest and his tail begin to wag again.

"Me either," he agreed. "Maybe you'll get your own dog someday. You should ask."

John entertained the thought, just briefly, about getting to live at Sherlock's house. He bet it was big and they probably had a huge back yard they could play in. Maybe even John could help him cross the streets sometime and take him to school. If they got older, John could help him get to his classes.

Of course, that was jumping the gun quiet a lot, but John was rather taken with the idea of having a friend.

"Remember Saturday," he told Sherlock. "I'll be there even if my mum doesn't want to go. I'll convince her."

He yawned a little bit and curled into his covers tighter.

"Sherlock Holmes," he repeated the name. "Now I know. I don't have as good a memory as you, but I won't forget that name. It's weird enough." He laughed softly. "I like it."

Sherlock knew he should ask his parents about giving him a dog. He planned to. Maybe he could get one for his birthday. His mother had already bought his Christmas gifts-at least, she said she had-but that left his birthday available.

Sherlock didn't like how his birthday and Christmas were so close together. By the time his birthday was finished, he had a lot of presents from this both but nearly an entire year to wait until he got presents again. That wasn't fair, either. Mycroft's birthday was in the early fall; he got presents and then he waited a few months until Christmas, and then he got _more_ presents. Sherlock would get things he wanted for his birthday and Christmas, but he would grow tired of them within a few weeks or months, and then he had to wait until December to get more.

Unless his parents were feeling generous, which they often were. Sherlock just happened to be a selfish child.

"I won't forget, John. I promise. The park on Saturday at two o'clock. By the pond. My parents will see you, or you can just come up to me. Maybe I'll be able to hear you." Sherlock chuckled. Teasingly he added, "Growl again, so I know it's you."

Sherlock moved to the couch so he could lie down, flat on his back. He stared up at the ceiling, knowing that he wouldn't be able to see anything anyway, and imagined what it would be like when he saw John again. Hopefully they would have time to play, unlike the first time they'd met.

"My real name is William," Sherlock admitted, frowning. "I don't like it. It's a boring name. That's why I go by Sherlock, which is my middle name. Is John your real name?"

William. John hummed a little bit, but frowned. John heard the name 'William' many, many times. He liked 'Sherlock' much better. Even if he thought it was slightly strange at first, the week he had spent thinking about it, over and over and over again, made it stick with his image of the other boy in such a way that thinking he had some other one didn't feel right.

"John is my real name," he said, nodding. "I go by 'Johnny' a lot, though. My sister calls me Johnny and my mum does, sometimes. All of my paperwork says 'John', though. That's what my dad says, so he calls me 'John'."

He stretched again and rolled on his stomach. "It's common, but I can't imagine myself having any other name."

He grinned a little bit, then, at the image that Sherlock had conjured for them; John, growling right in Sherlock's ear, so that he would know it was him. It would probably sound a little more forced than how it had sounded before, but he thought he could probably do a pretty good imitation.

From outside his door, John heard a door opening, and he bit his lower lip, suddenly aware of just how loud he might have been talking. He could see light seeping in from beneath his door and he heard the door to Harry's room opening and a muffled, 'what are you doing in here?' from their father.

John swallowed a little before ducking back under the covers.

"I've got to go. I'll see you Saturday," he said quickly. "Don't forget; I'll make sure I'm there" before he hung up the phone fast, much like how Sherlock had done the week before.

John Watson. Sherlock liked the name a lot. It was simple, but strong at the same time. Even though it was common and a bit boring, it suited him. Not that Sherlock thought John was common or boring; he didn't think either. He liked him.

Sherlock's heart sank when John told him he had to go. They hadn't been talking long at all, and already it was coming to an end. He said 'bye', but he wasn't even sure if John heard him before he heard the steady dial tone coming through the phone. Sherlock hung it back up (after several unsuccessful attempts) and then walked back to his room and got in bed.

Sherlock couldn't sleep at all. He kept rolling over in his bed, picturing John and wondering what he looked like. He should have asked. Why didn't he ask?! He could picture him, then, instead of leaving it all to guesswork.

Saturday...maybe he could ask. Or, even better, he could actually touch John. He'd heard that blind people would touch other peoples' faces to see what they looked like, and he didn't see any reason why he couldn't do so.

Friday came and went, as boring as ever. Sherlock practiced his French more and cleaned his room at his parents' insistence. It took him longer than it used to, but he was actually glad to have a task to distract him, oddly enough. Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough, even though he hadn't yet talked to his parents.

Saturday morning, Sherlock confronted them. He asked his mother if they could go to the park-at two o'clock, he made sure to add-and then stared up in his mother's direction, awaiting her answer.

She didn't give one right away, but he still sensed that she knew why he was asking.

"Of course, love," she said at last, putting her hand on his head and rubbing his curls. "We can go to the park. I'll have you there at two."

And she did. At two o'clock, Sherlock was bundled up in his wool coat and scarf, gloves on his hands and sunglasses over his eyes. He had his white, red-tipped cane beside him on the bench, and he stared in the direction of trickling water and quacking ducks, drumming his fingers on his knees.

The nearest clock-part of a church-suddenly chimed, twice, and Sherlock wet his lips. He would wait thirty minutes, he told himself. His mother was sitting on a bench a few yards away, reading a magazine, and Sherlock was just waiting.

Getting his parents to agree to going to the park that Saturday took a lot more work than John had thought it would. His father said no almost immediately, and John had just the slightest sneaking suspicion that he knew. John was never quite so adamant about a specific time and place that he wanted to go somewhere, and when questioned, he broke down and explained himself.

John had never been very good a lying.

He explained to them that he had made a new friend and he wanted to play with him, and he promised that nothing would happen. He wouldn't get into trouble. He wouldn't cause too much of a scene. He wouldn't do anything that would draw any unwanted attention to himself.

"Please," John had begged his mother. "Please! I have to see him, it's really, _really_ important."

Of course, he had a much more difficult time explaining just why that was, and he couldn't even put it into words himself.

But it seemed, if just once, his mother understood.

"Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea," she told her husband. "Maybe he just needs... socializing."

After that, it became just _slightly_ easier.

When it was all said and done, John found himself in London on Saturday. His father had gone out of town for the weekend anyway, and mum said that she might as well get a little shopping done while they were out, so John had to suffer through at least two hours of going in and out of shops, looking at clothes and perfumes, (none of which were actually bought because they were too expensive, said his mother forlornly) before they made their way to the park.

At twenty after two.

John was pulling on his mother's hand like, (for lack of a better image) a dog on a leash, yanking her and running his legs as fast as they could go towards the pond.

"Slow down, John," she had scolded, but once they hit the grass, John shook her off completely and made for the pond, just a ways away. His mother called something after him, and he turned his head to indicate he heard her, (something about not falling) before slowing to a walk.

He smelt, rather than saw, Sherlock immediately. From a little ways away, he saw Sherlock's mum reading a magazine, and he remembered Sherlock telling him that he should go and say hello to her, but he was almost too excited to remember that little detail.

Instead, he slowly, quietly walked over to the boy sitting in the grass and smiled. He stepped up behind him and began to growl. He was still young, hadn't hit puberty, so his vocal cords made the sound soft, but he knew Sherlock would hear him either way.

As Sherlock counted off the minutes one by one, he became less and less excited and more and more certain that John wasn't going to come. Maybe John had lied about wanting to. Maybe his parents hadn't let him. Maybe he'd never even intended to in the first place-maybe he just thought it was neat to know someone who was blind, but he didn't actually want to be friends.

Either way, his heart was sinking.

He had been so excited. He couldn't explain why, really, but he had wanted to see-more or less-John again, and he had wanted to talk to the boy and play with him. He hadn't been able to bring his sword, but he'd decided he could use his cane instead and just pretend that it was a sword. It was close enough, wasn't it? John could get a stick off the ground, surely there were some, and then they could play sword-fighting.

Sherlock knew his mother wouldn't like that, but maybe she would let it slide because he never got to play with _anyone_.

Sherlock was so focused on his own thoughts that he didn't even hear someone coming up behind him. He didn't hear the soft footsteps or the rustling in the grass, but he did hear the rumbling growl in his ear.

Immediately, he smiled.

"Hi, John."

Sherlock turned around a little bit to face the other boy. He wished he could see what John looked like, but maybe he could ask. He wanted to wait until it came up in conversation or something, though, because he knew he would look weird if he just suddenly asked to feel John's face.

"Oh!" Sherlock reached into his pocket and got out a little baggie of chocolate chocolate-chip cookies, his favourite kind, and held them out to John. "My mother made those and I stole a few for you. I told her not to put nuts in them, because I didn't know if you were allergic or not. I actually like nuts."

Sherlock wet his lips and looked around, wishing he could see something, anything. He was still new to being blind, and it was as if he hoped that, by looking in all directions, he would eventually find something that was visible to him. He could hear ducks quacking and the water in the pond trickling; he could hear the rustling of leaves and children laughing, but he couldn't _see_ any of it.

"I started to think you weren't coming. I was going to leave in another ten minutes."

John took the bag of cookies with wide eyes and smile in Sherlock's direction.

"Thank you," he said, before sitting down in the grass so he could take one out. They were soft, despite the cold, which John was glad for, because those kinds tasted better than the rock-hard ones.

"My mum wanted to shop," John explained to Sherlock. "I told her we had to be here by two, and she kept saying that we would be, but then she lost track of time."

John was very glad that he hadn't been too late, though. If he had come here and Sherlock had already left…that would have been terrible. It would have been a wasted trip and then Sherlock might not have called him again.

He looked around towards his mum, who from a ways away, took a seat on the bench near Sherlock's mum, but he didn't wait to see if the two struck up any sort of conversation before he was turning his attention back to Sherlock.

There were all sorts of new smells on him, up close. He could smell the faint aroma of cookies on his jacket, along with his mum's perfume right at his collar. But when there was a small wind in John's direction, he could smell _Sherlock_ , and it was a smell John very much enjoyed.

John reached for Sherlock's hand and took it in his own before lightly tugging on it.

"Do you want to go play now?"

Sherlock wondered what John's mother had wanted to shop for, but it didn't really matter so he didn't bother asking. The only reason he would have done so was because he was curious and wanted to picture her and John shopping. If John was anything like Sherlock, he thought shopping was boring.

Of course Sherlock would enjoy himself sometime, but only if they were shopping for something for him. New books or a new microscope, something of that nature, he could enjoy that. But shopping for clothes, or even worse, his _mother_ shopping for clothes? Sherlock hated that.

Sherlock looked down at his hand when he felt John's fingers closing around it and he smiled. He stood up and brushed off the backs of his trouser legs, not wanting any dirt or leaves to be stuck on them, and then he looked around. He remembered where things were in the park, but it would be easier if John would simply take him somewhere.

Either way, of course he wanted to play. He had been waiting to play with John all week, and now he just hoped that his mother and John's would actually allow them to spend a good bit of time with one another, rather than making them go home early. Who knew when they would get to play with each other again?

"How about we ride on the swings?" he suggested. "Or we can go down the slide. Oh! Or I can show you the squirrel's nest I found. It's in a tree trunk, by the water fountain."

Sherlock frowned. He put his finger on his lips, lightly tapping it as he turned himself around in a circle, then back, trying to orient himself.

"The water fountain is...over here, right?"

The swings, the slide, the squirrel's nest... It didn't necessarily matter to John what they did. Now that he was actually with Sherlock, looking at him, standing right next to him, he was forced to wonder if he had behaved a bit foolishly, having being so clingy to the idea of him the whole week, but he still couldn't bring himself to mind it all that much.

"Over here," John said, slowly moving to Sherlock's right and tugging him along. He didn't know how on earth anyone managed to get around being blind, but surely there were ways. John wasn't so sure there was anything he could do to necessarily help that, but he decided he could at least try.

"I saw a dead bird the last time I was here," John said. "I wanted to bury it, but my dad told me not to touch it."

As they walked, John kept his fingers wrapped around Sherlock's slightly smaller hand, and it made John feel good, like he was protecting him. There was no snow on the ground, but the grass crunched just so from the cold and for a moment, John worried that maybe he should have found a way to meet Sherlock inside somewhere, in case the other boy were too cold.

"I've never seen a squirrel's nest before," he informed the other boy. "They don't lay eggs, right? That's just birds and stuff."

Sherlock was glad that John's father hadn't let him touch the bird. Although Sherlock, too, would have wanted to touch it-not to bury it, necessarily (not at first, anyway), but because he would have wanted to study and experiment on it, maybe even take a few feathers to keep.

He was also glad that John was holding his hand. It made him feel secure and safe, even more so than when he was holding his mother's hand, or even his father's. Sherlock didn't know why that was, but it didn't matter, either. All that mattered right now was that he was with John again and they had the opportunity to play and get to know each other better.

"Squirrels don't lay eggs, silly." Sherlock laughed softly while shaking his head. "That is only reptiles and birds. And platypuses. I think they're mammals. Oh, and fish. And insects. Everything _other_ than mammals."

As far as he knew, anyway.

With each step they took, Sherlock knew they were getting closer and closer, and he could even sense that it was familiar territory. He extended his hand and, a few steps late, felt his fingers brush over the water fountain.

"The tree is right over here," he said, pulling gently on John's hand so he could guide the other boy to the left. He kept one hand out in front of him, even though he knew John could have just as easily told him to stop when they were getting too close. When he felt the rough bark against his fingertips, he crouched down and felt around the bottom of the trunk.

"It's around here somewhere," he murmured, wiping his hands on his trousers when they became slick with frost on the leaves. "You can probably see it. Obviously I can't."

Sherlock moved to be on his knees, his hands on them, and he looked up at John.

"I liked reading to you. And talking to you on the phone. I've never really done it with anyone else before."

John crouched down on the grass so that he could get look at the nest, but if he were being honest, he could smell them before anything.

It wasn't that John was all _that_ different from a normal boy. There were just... things about him that were a little bit... off. He had a tail that was currently tucked into his trousers. His ears, golden and tanned at the tips were currently pinned (uncomfortably) to his head. He was forced to keep his hair slightly on the longer side because it helped to cover them a bit better, but John really didn't like that, because it sometimes his fringe got into his eyes. He had an uncanny ability to smell things and hear things that other people couldn't, and there were a few traits to him that would be known as being relatively 'canine' in nature.

An occasional growl when he felt threatened. A whimper when scolded. The strong desire to be praised, especially by adults, (his brain seemed to pulse with the occasional feeling of something he couldn't quite place-things like, 'leader', or 'alpha male', a title which he couldn't quite seem to want to be someday or respond to).

Otherwise, he liked to play spots, when he could. He liked to colour sometimes, liked to read books and play pretend and watch telly and movies. Sometimes he got a little shy around girls.

All and all, he was normal.

Mostly.

"I liked that too," he responded, looking at Sherlock. "Maybe once you learn brail you can read me more books." He grinned a little, even if the other boy couldn't see. "Maybe in person."

Inside the nest, he couldn't see much, except for one squirrel, all bunched up in on itself, no doubt keeping warm from the cold. There were no babies, though, and John didn't know how long it would be until there would be.

He stood back up again before squinting the eyes in the distance. There weren't nearly as many people out as there were the day they had met, and that was probably a good thing, considering they were wandering around a good distance away from their mum's.

"Are you going to be a professional story-teller when you grow up?" John asked him, grinning again. He knew such a thing didn't exist, really.

Didn't it? Actually, he didn't know.

"I don't know what I want to be, yet."

Sherlock had never heard of professional story tellers. Maybe they were people who read books aloud and got taped doing it, so that other people could listen? Although, that wasn't really telling a story so much as it was reading one, was it?

Either way, Sherlock knew that he most definitely didn't want to be a professional story-teller. It sounded boring to him, and he didn't want to do anything that was boring.

He'd had an idea of what he wanted to do, but it had been a silly idea in the first place. Mycroft had said so, anyway, and Mycroft was always right. Sherlock hated to admit it, but it was true.

He had wanted to be a detective, or maybe even a police officer. Something of that sort. When he had been young (not that he wasn't now), he'd wanted to be a pirate. It hadn't taken him very long to realise that the pirates of today weren't anything like the ones in his storybooks. The ones in his books had wanted gold and adventure; they killed people when they were under attack or when people tried to steal their gold, but it didn't seem to be all they did.

Sherlock had heard about pirates in Somalia, and they killed a _lot_ of people. Maybe people were trying to steal their treasure? Either way, it seemed a bit excessive to Sherlock, and he didn't want to have to kill people just to be a pirate.

He would find adventure some other way.

"I wanted to do some things before I went blind," Sherlock said, shrugging. He bit down on his bottom lip. "I don't know what I want to do, now. I researched famous blind people. They were teachers, musicians, actors, singers. I don't think I want to do any of those things."

Some had been inventors, or scientists. Sherlock was far more interested in those careers, although he didn't know what his chances would be for them. Still, if anyone could be successful, it would be him, right? He was _smart_.

Sherlock opened up his cane and lightly tapped John's shoulder with it, smirking.

"En garde, Watson!"


	5. Chapter 5

When John felt the tip of Sherlock's cane on his shoulder, his mouth immediately began to split into a grin and he looked around on the ground quickly for something that he could pick up.

Unfortunately for him, there wasn't anything close by enough that could be used as a good sword, just a few broken pieces of sticks, (some looking rather flimsy) but it was the best he could do, so he quickly swiped one up and lightly tapped the end of Sherlock's cane to show him that he, too, was now armed.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I'll have you walking the plank!"

It could have been anything that they were suddenly playing, but John didn't really seem to care either way. Pirates or hunters or swordsmen or samurais. Maybe a combination of all three. Maybe it was just Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

"If you were a pirate, you'd have an eye patch," John told him thoughtfully, tapping his cane a little bit harder with his stick. "So at least you already look the part a little bit."

He smirked at Sherlock, the tail in his trousers fighting to start wagging at the idea of play, but he ignored it. He was learning every day how to control his own body impulses, but sometimes it still came through a bit.

"Come on, now, Sherlock Holmes. Let's see these fancy fighting skills of yours."

Sherlock knew that, with his lack of eyesight, John was in more danger than he was from accidental injuries. He would control his movements, but he still might unintentionally hit his cane against John's face or his neck, his arm or shoulder-anywhere, really.

Still, he had an idea of how tall John was, and he could use that to estimate where certain body parts were. Given the sound of John's voice, he was standing about a yard and a half from where Sherlock was, so he knew how to move his cane while still avoiding the other boy.

If something _did_ happen, he trusted that John knew it was entirely accidental.

Sherlock lifted his left hand up in the air, in proper fencing stance, and tapped his tap against John's stick. He could tell it was a stick and a rather flimsy one at that, so he took it into account. He would have to be gentle, even more so than he'd already planned to be.

"Having me walk the plank won't do you any good," Sherlock warned the other boy, hitting John's stick again as he took a step forward. "My crew is completely loyal to me. You'll have a mutiny on your hands."

A cold breeze blew past them, rustling Sherlock's curls and caressing his face. He imagined that it was a sea breeze and that he could smell the salt and ocean water, that he could hear the waves splashing against the side of his boat and feel the warm sun on his skin.

"I would need two eye patches," he told John with a grin. "I might as well, right?"

He knew he would look goofy with two eye patches, but it was a _joke_. Besides, they would look similar to his sunglasses, which he already had on to keep others from seeing his blank stare.

"I'm not giving you my treasure. Ever."

When the wind blew, John could smell Sherlock clearly, (despite him being in his direct line of sight, of course) and his mouth drew upwards into a lazy, but playful, smirk.

"You won't have to give me anything," he told him assuredly. "I'll just take it. You and your whole crew; once they see who's the better fighter, they'll turn their allegiance to me!"

Allegiance. That was the right word from the movies, wasn't it?

Regardless!

John began to circle around Sherlock as he spoke, waving his stick between his fingers as he did so. He did like to think of himself as a pretty great fighter, so if he was overly confident, that were the reason.

Though, mostly it was because Harry and he were almost unnaturally competitive with each other, so he was forced to try and be the best all the time.

Of course, John had no formal training of fencing and he didn't know what actual proper stance was. His style was more akin to pretending he was like one of the guys on telly and just go all out.

He swung his stick at Sherlock's cane and hit the side, with just enough force for there to be a loud 'knock' sound in the air between them, and he felt his smirk grow wider. His eats twitched at the sound and he repeated the motion, stepping forward, towards Sherlock and knocking their swords together.

"Are you afraid of me, Captain Holmes?"

Sherlock didn't have to think about John's question, not at all. He knew the answer right away, and he was pleased with it, too.

"I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid of _anything_."

Well, maybe that was a little fib, but it was different when they were playing, wasn't it? In real life, Sherlock was afraid of getting lost again. It had only happened to him once, but that was more than enough.

What if it did happen again, though? Sherlock told his parents that it would be wise to get him a mobile phone, but they hadn't been willing to do so as of yet. That may change, eventually, but they seemed to think he was too young to need one right now. While that may have been so, Sherlock would readily remind them that he was blind.

He had a feeling that he would be using his blindness to end a lot of arguments definitively.

Sherlock took another step forward and hit his cane against John's stick. After another quick lunge forward, he let out a triumphant 'Ha ha!' and, after knocking John's stick aside, pressed the tip of his cane into John's shoulder, gently but firmly.

"I hope you're not letting me win, matey," he told John, smirking. He was glad that John had called him 'Captain' Holmes, because that was exactly the role Sherlock always wanted to take when he played pirates, even though he normally didn't get the opportunity because Mycroft was too bloody prideful.

Sherlock took a few steps back, one after another, until his foot got caught on an shallow hole in the ground and he fell backwards, right on his backside. It was startling enough to make him gasp as he fell, and his cane fell out of his hand, leaving him completely open to an attack.

"You seem to have caught me at a disadvantage, Watson. Well played."

When Sherlock fell, John's eyes widened, but not necessarily in fright. His ears twitched against the pins and his heart sped up in excitement.

"I've got you now, Captain. You're completely at my mercy."

John lifted up his stick and used the very end to lightly tap the front of Sherlock's coat, but didn't actually poke him with it.

"Don't think I'll show you mercy. I've heard all about your lot," John improvised dramatically. "You're a bunch of thieves and scoundrels and I'm going to take everything from you."

He stepped back, just so, and lowered his stick. He knew Sherlock couldn't see him, but wearing his glasses, it was almost easy enough for John to forget that fact, and he smirked at him.

"Now get up, Holmes, your sword is on your left. And do your worst!"

He was noble, after all. Or so he liked to believe. He wouldn't let a silly little hole be the reason that he beat this captain.

"If I beat you, I take back your treasure and take over your crew while you become fish food. That's a promise!"

Sherlock had thought before about what it would be like to play pirates with somebody, but he never would have imagined that it would be so fun. The things John were saying made Sherlock feel like what they were doing was real, even though he knew he knew in his head that it wasn't.

Grasping around on his left hand side, Sherlock quickly found his cane and pushed himself off the ground. When he was on two feet again, he held his cane out in front of him, carefully moving it back and forth. It brushed against John, but he did have a hard time finding him again, partly because he kept moving around to try and prevent John from being able to hit him with his stick.

"I see no reason why we can't settle this like gentlemen," he told John, his cane out in front of him, poised like a jewel-encrusted saber. "Why, I might even suggest that you and I take control of this motley crew together and whip them into shape. What say you, Watson?"

That _did_ sound fun. Sherlock liked to imagine what it would be like for him and John to have their own pirate ship, with people listening to their every order. He would be the Captain, of course, and John could be his first mate-his eyes.

From where she sat, Wilma Holmes ganced up from her magazine and smiled. The two boys seemed to have having a grand time, which was exactly what she had hoped for her son. She'd known that Sherlock wanted to come to the park to see John; she wasn't a fool by any stretch of the imagination. Fortunately, she knew that her son wasn't, either, and that he would be careful while playing such a dangerous game.

Allies! Interesting...

The idea was most enticing, John was forced to admit. Being Sherlock's first-mate, his eyes and ears and trusted companion while the two ruled over a tough and rumble crew of misfits, sailing the ocean together, looking for treasure and adventures and trouble... Well, that was better than going about it alone, he decided.

So he lowered his stick and stood up straight before holding out his hand slowly.

" _Gentleman's_ agreement," he said, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's to indicate he was trying to shake his hand. When Sherlock found his, he squeezed it firmly. "They won't stand a chance against us."

There was something in that moment that had John smirking just a little bit wider, and it had less to do with the game they were playing as it did that he felt something was starting between them. Although John couldn't explain it, he had a very good sense that Sherlock Holmes was going to play quite a role in his life.

Though what that would be, was yet to be determined.

"Where should we head first, Captain?"

He paused, then, to glance over to where his own mum was sitting. She wasn't on the same bench as Sherlock's mum, but was watching John and Sherlock with a curious expression. John was actually surprised because she didn't look wary, as usual. Just...curious. As if she was thinking about something. He saw her look at Mrs. Holmes, probably noticing her nice clothes and fancy hair. Comparatively, they did look quite different in class.

John wondered if it were obvious between him and Sherlock, too.

But he pushed the thoughts aside again. A gust of cold air swept past them, ruffling his blonde hair.

"Well Captain?"

Sherlock gave serious thought to John's inquiry, as if it really mattered where their first destination was, as if they were actually out at sea, rather than just playing in the middle of a London park. He hummed and looked around, even going so far as to put his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun.

It was all for the sake of playing a role, of course, as Sherlock couldn't see and there wasn't really much sun. It was the middle of the day, but-as was typical for London-the sun was mostly hidden beneath a thick layer of clouds, making everything appear darker than it should have been, and all the more dreary for it.

However, Sherlock felt anything but dreary. His heart was racing in his chest and all he could think about was how much he was enjoying himself. He had never had a proper first mate before, and now that he did, he didn't want it to stop. Ever. He wanted to explore islands with John and sail all across the seven seas, even if everything was entirely imaginary.

There was nothing wrong with that.

Holding his cane out in front of him, Sherlock kept hold of John's hand in his other and started to lightly tap the ground, just as his mother had taught him. When he stepped out with his left foot, he tapped his cane to the right. When his right foot stepped out, his cane went to the left. It was long, capable of detecting things up to four feet in front of him, but even so, Sherlock kept his hand up in the air when he walked, as if to prevent himself from bumping into anything. He was becoming better at that (slowly but surely), but he wasn't yet there.

Truth be told, he wasn't sure if he ever would be, really, but he kept reminding himself that he was the second-smartest person he knew, and that if normal people could do it, he could do it, too. He could even do it better than they could.

"Let's go check on the cannons," he decided. "We need to make sure they're all loaded and cleaned for the next big skirmish we get into. You know the way below, don't you?"

John nodded, never quite registering that Sherlock couldn't actually see him doing so, before leading the way across their grassy patch to where the pretend deck was located, (which was a little ways past the tree trunk).

"I hear there's a man that's been looking for you, captain," he informed Sherlock darkly. "Old Blackbeard. Whispers on the wind says he's coming for you. Don't worry, though. Now that I'm on your side, he can't touch you."

Like most kids, John's mind was jumping from this to that, improving their little make believe story as they went, without any real need for logic or continuity. John certainly didn't think in those parameters.

But there was a sudden wafting in the air and John lifted his head up and sniffed. Somewhere, from across the field, someone was grilling food on the sidewalk and John's mouth watered just as the thought.

In all likelihood, Sherlock wouldn't have been able to smell it, though.

What John wished he could do, and quite desperately, was take the pins out that were holding down his ears. Sometimes it was okay, but more often than not John stayed at home, which meant he was allowed to keep them naturally upright. He chanced a look to his mum, but she was still keeping an eye on them enough that he couldn't risk it.

"What say ye, captain? Think anyone will stand the chance against us?"

Sherlock nearly felt a shiver go up his spine at the thought of having a pirate pursuing him. Another pirate, that is, since he was one himself. He and John and all the other men who were on his crew, they were all dirty, smelling, rough-and-tumble pirates.

Then again, pirates would never hold hands like he and John were doing, even if their captain was blind. That being said, Sherlock didn't pull his hand away from John's. He liked the security that came along with it, and it also made him feel-stupidly-that he would get to play with John longer if he actually continued to touch him.

"I was never worried, John," Sherlock said as sternly as he could, lifting his head in defiance. "Captains don't get worried. They're the bravest members of the crew. That's why they're the Captain."

It made sense to Sherlock, at least.

His cane remained out in front of him as he walked, tapping to the left and to the right. He could feel the grass beneath the tip, the sand when they walked past the sandbox, and even the overgrown root of an old tree stump. When they stopped, Sherlock turned in a circle and explored the area with his cane. He was familiar with the spot; the park was still the same as it had been when he had been able to see, and he was glad for that.

"Nobody will stand a chance against us," he said firmly. He stuck his cane in the soft ground-despite knowing that his mother would roll her eyes because he'd intentionally gotten it muddy-and then took off his scarf, tying it to the handle to try and serve as some sort of pirate flag. It didn't work; all it did was hang down and brush against the wet ground, but he'd still made the effort.

"We need a name for our ship. I had a toy ship once that I named The Filthy Eel. I dropped it, though, and it broke." Sherlock paused suddenly, realising that he had dropped out of character. "But that was when I was a wee lad," he added in his best pirate accent. "I don't play with toys anymore, and I ain't seen me mudder in years."

Well, a month. And that was ignoring the fact that she was sitting on the bench, watching the two boys play over her magazine, and smiling.

A pirate ship name was most definitely needed, John decided and he placed his hands on his hips as he looked about the park with a scrutinizing gaze, as if looking out into the vast ocean.

"The Filty Eel, eh?" John asked. "That's a scallywag name for a ship! We need something that's going to be... mysterious sounding! Dangerous, too."

Just then, a woman and her husband passed by them, and given John's quick gaze, his eyes followed them, and to the white coffee cups they were each holding, both which had a strange green drawing of some sort of women with fins and long hair.

"Our ship should be called The Mermaid's-Mermaid's Wrath!"

The Mermaid's Wrath sounded mysterious and dangerous, didn't it? John certainly thought so!

He gave Sherlock a fierce look and squeezed his hand again, his small fingers curling tightly around Sherlock's own. His own accent wasn't quite as good as Sherlock's was, but then he supposed, that was why he made a better first-mate than a captain. He spoke as he began to pull Sherlock forward again, towards the fountain. He crawled up the stony ledge and clumsily helped Sherlock do the same. He waved his hand out at the park, pretending he could actually see the ocean before looking at Sherlock.

"Legend says your trusty eye patches have telescopes in them! What d'you see out there on the horizon, Captain?"

 _Mermaid's_ Wrath? What was so wrathful about a mermaid? Ha! Sherlock had read about them in his storybooks; he knew that, apparently, they could sing songs that would lure sailors to their death-siren songs, they were called. Sherlock had always thought they were very pretty, and he found it strange to think that they were actually mean and would eat humans.

Then again, everyone needed to eat. Even him, although he didn't like doing it.

Sherlock kept a tight hold on John's hands when he was pulled up onto the ledge. He hadn't anticipated that there would be any climbing during their play, but then, they _were_ on a pirate ship. Pirate ships had decks and masts; climbing was an essential part of being on one.

Putting his hand right over his eyes, as if to shield them from the sun once more, Sherlock hummed and looked forward, turning his head slowly as if he were surveying the ocean from all angles.

"There be an island to the west of us," he said, pointing to the left (assuming he and John were facing north; he couldn't tell, as he couldn't see where the sun was or what side of the trees the moss was growing on in the park). "And to the east? Shiver me timbers, it's water! Lots and lots of water, matey. Aye, if it's supplies we be needing, let's turn this ship to port!"

Smirking, Sherlock reached out and felt John's arm, moving his hand up his shoulder so he could orient himself, and then he lifted his hand and put it on top of John's head, turning it to the left. He had started to say 'That's this way', because he knew that the last time they had met, John hadn't known anything about east (so Sherlock assumed he didn't know anything about west, either), but he found that the words wouldn't come.

They wouldn't come because he was startled! sherlock had felt the scratchy material of a cap, he assumed, which was fine. It didn't surprise him a bit; it was rather chilly out, after all. No, what had surprised him was that there was something beneath John's cap! Two things, actually, and they had _moved_!

"What's on your head?" he asked, after having jerked his hand away, just out of surprise. He knew it wasn't the cookies he had given John earlier; it didn't feel like them (and who put cookies in their hat, anyway?)...it didn't feel like anything Sherlock had ever felt before, come to think of it, so it was only natural that he be curious.

John hadn't expected Sherlock to touch the top of his head like he did, so he hadn't even had the chance to stop him from doing so. He was too busy looking out at their pretend ocean to notice the hand that had grappled its way to set on top of his head, and his ears twitched immediately when it did.

He looked sideways at Sherlock with slightly wide eyes and his eyes shot around quickly, just to make sure his mum hadn't somehow caught wind of it from where she was.

"It's-It's my hat, silly," John covered up as best as he could, taking a small step to the side and reaching both of his hands up to his head, as if adjusting his cap. "It's cold out here after all."

John never knew why he couldn't just... not wear anything. Yes, it was... weird, and yes it was different, but that didn't mean bad, did it? John didn't think so. And he would give anything not to have to clip down his ears painfully every day or shove his tail into his trousers, only to be let out in the privacy of his own home.

He hated it.

But even so, he had been under strict order not to tell anyone, and he was (unfortunately)...obedient.

So, quickly, he reached for Sherlock's hand again. He jumped down from the ledge before looking up at where Sherlock was still standing just a foot or so above him.

"Well come on, then! We're not going to find anything with you doodling about up there, cap'in!"


End file.
